All-a-Twitter

My twitter Story

2010-05-28T23:43:00.000-07:00

I was having a DM conversation on twitter with @twbrit earlier today. We were trying to figure out Mac fanboy/girls. We didn’t make much headway because we just don’t get it. You get it, or you don’t and I don’t. The thing is; I may not get why those rabid apple addicts love their computer crack but I generally don’t twist it into something sinister.

This blog’s called all-a-twitter because micro blogging isn’t always enough. It’s meant to expand on conversations I have on twitter and basically give me a place to say something more complex more completely. However, this particular post is actually going to be about twitter.

Tonight, after taking my medicine I was a little wired and went downstairs to watch one of the many TV shows I’ve had mothballing on my DVR. This one was a Criminal Minds episode in which the crazy killer stalks people through social networking websites like Facebook and twitter and the episode soon turned into yet another diatribe against social networking.

One character described a person with over a thousand followers and likened being on twitter to “e-mail on crack”, saying it was impossible to keep up with the number of followers one acquired. Another character, a grieving mother of a slain woman, described a scenario in which her daughter communicated so much through social networking that she didn’t have time for real conversations with her family.

(BTW, Really? I’m seriously going to be so into twitter that I don’t actually talk to my family anymore? People are BUYING THIS CRAP?) *sigh* Okay, moving on…

The clincher seemed to be that the mother learned of her daughter's promotion through a third party and when mommy dearest angrily reproached her about it she was met only with an incredulous, “I posted it on my wall a week ago.”

Facebook and twitter were consistently portrayed in this episode, and in almost every other popular portrayal I’ve seen, as indicative of severe narcissism. Tweets presented were not poignant or political messages such as “If Iran sleeps tonight, It will sleep forever.” The three examples were “Sushi for lunch. Yum.” “Boss making me stay late. Grrr.” And then later a soon-to-be-victim posted a picture of a scone she was about to eat with a caption like, “Scone. Yummy.”

The main characters asked questions like, “How could you possibly think you are so interesting that people want to know what you’re eating?” Forever circling back to the whole portrayal of people involved in social networking, primarily twitter users, as narcissists.

This is just really, really starting to IRK me.

Today I found out that a person I’ve been dealing with in person for the last five months really doesn’t care at all about me. I’m not entirely convinced after today that she even remotely likes me. I believed we’d developed an informal connection into an acquaintance and, further, into a friendship. I was wrong, well, half-wrong. I genuinely liked her and thought of her as a friend. However, she doesn’t feel that way about me but because she needed something from me, she maintained a pretense.

I like twitter, not because I think I’m so amazing and everyone wants to know every little thing about me but because I’m pretty sure I’m not and they don't.

I don’t expect to be admired or exalted because I love the Tofu & Veggie Teriyaki at PeiWei Asian Diner. I won’t tweet how much I enjoy it because I think that somehow makes me awesome and everyone is terribly interested in what I’m eating. If I tweet something like that, I’m doing it because I’m trying to expose myself as completely as I am capable of reasonably doing and hoping that someone else feels the same way.

It’s never easy to do that, even on the internet. Internet rejection hurts too. But it’s not nearly as painful as what I went through today. Real life rejection is much harder to shake off, even though, honestly, I know a lot of my tweet peeps better than this ‘real life’ girl.

The internet has a long history of duplicity. Part of the appeal for some people was hiding themselves; the idea that “you can be whoever you want on the internet” is a long standing concept. In a past conversation with tweet peep @tylermassey he said something that stuck with me. He said, “No one can pull off being fake on twitter for too long. Eventually, the real you seeps in.”

THAT’s what appeals to me about twitter. I’m genuine. The majority of the people to whom I tweet are genuine. In fact, I’m usually much more candid and real on twitter than I am with the people around me. Why? Because I’m STUCK with the people around me. I have to work with them. I have to deal with them on holidays. I have to answer to them in some way, shape or form that can have minor or extreme consequences.

On twitter, it’s easier. Someone thinks you’re boring? They leave…and most of the time you don’t even notice. People leave because you post too much or not enough or you’re just not who they thought you were when they first stumbled onto your feed. The vast majority of the time, that’s fine and dandy.

The only time it’s apt to matter, it’s not going to happen that way. The only time I'd care if someone stopped following me is if we'd started actually conversing with each other and gotten to know each other. I've never had someone like that just stop following me without any explanation. See, there are relationships on twitter that develop. I have people I consider friends.

Today when the real world was whooping up on me six ways to Sunday I posted something on twitter and @sjoes, a truly amazing and inspiring person just the way she is (thank you very much), posted a reply that genuinely made me feel better. She’s good at that. Why didn’t I call my Mom? I did. She didn’t answer. I called my sister too, she also didn’t answer. I was hurt and needed to tell someone and typing it to the void in the vague hope that maybe someone out there gave a crap was better than nothing.

When I was stuck in a undeniably ugly, somewhat scary and deeply depressing ER room by myself, I tweeted a picture because it made me feel less alone. Was twitter a substitute for my husband? No, but he wasn’t there at the time. Twitter is always on and chances are that there is someone out there who might care that you’re scared and alone.

I know so much more about @sjoes than I do the ‘real world’ person who hurt me today. Strangely, I don’t know a lot of the important BIG things. I know simple little things about her, the mundane.

There’s a scene in Good Will Hunting where Robin Williams’ character explains that love isn’t always knowing all the milestones in a person’s life but knowing all the details; the odd twists and idiosyncrasies that make all of us the truly unique and strange INDIVIDUALS we are. He said:

“People call these imperfections but they’re not, ah, that’s the good stuff. And then we get to choose who we let into our weird little worlds. You’re not perfect, Sport. And let me save you the suspense, this girl you met? She isn’t perfect either. But the question is whether or not you’re perfect for each other?”

I can’t speak for everyone on twitter but I know that for me, it’s not about people hanging on my every word. It’s not about trying to impress people. It’s about being intimate without the bone crushing, soul squishing fear of rejection because if you find those people who also may have forgotten how much they like pickles and get to talking to them and find out that you enjoy each other’s ‘weird little worlds’ that’s a friendship that is more pure than most you will find in the ‘real world’.

Hair Cuts and Gender Bias

2010-05-13T09:40:00.000-07:00

I usually cut my own hair. Why? Because I'm cheap. I'm very cheap.

I recently decided that for the 1/2 marathon in San Diego I'm going to have Team in Training purple highlights put in my hair. Since I can't do that, I called up the spa where a friend of a friend works and made an appointment.

Afterward, I checked out their website. I know, I know. That's the wrong order but let's just move on past that.

I noticed that they charged for haircuts according to gender.

Huh.

Really?

So, it kind of pissed me off a wee, tiny bit and they had this contact information there just begging me to send them feedback. Aaaand to sum up an unnecessarily long story, I sent them the following email:

Good Morning, people I don’t know.

I just recently made an appointment with you for the first time and decided to check out your website. While there, I noticed you price haircuts according to gender and that kind of offends me. And I needed to send you an e-mail and let you know because this is the information age and opinions must be e-mailed!

Anyway, so, do you charge a woman with very short hair the same price as a woman with long hair? Do you charge a man with very long hair the same price as a man with short hair? What about transvestites? Do they get the male or female price?

I get that you’re probably assuming men will have shorter and easier to cut hair but that has nothing to do with whether their bits dangle. It has to do with the length of their hair. So, why not price according to hair length?

That’s it. I’m just protesting further separation and assignation of humanity according to gender as represented by your pricing system. If, as I suspect, you really don’t care what I think, please ignore my e-mail and go about your business. I just thought I’d let you know. Have a great day!

Love & Kisses,

Annie

A Warm Hug

2010-03-03T09:29:00.000-08:00

One of the biggest things going on in my life right now, if not the biggest, is the fact that I’m participating in Team in Training. Team in Training is an organization that exists for the sole purpose of raising money for the Leukemia & Lymphoma Society. This society is amazing!

I could go on and on and on about it (trust me) but I think that Matt Hall does a really good job of explaining the impact LLS has had for people struggling with leukemia, lymphoma and other blood cancers.

Matt's Thank You Video

When I don’t want to get up at 3:30 in the morning and traipse around my neighborhood in my ridiculous reflective gear and flashing lights, straining my muscles to the point of open rebellion I think about, well Matt now, but also Lisa. Lisa is working with our team and is a five year survivor of blood cancer. She was helped by LLS and now works in an LLS clinic greeting new and (thankfully) old patients.

Can you imagine what kind of impact she has? Imagine you’ve been diagnosed with a blood cancer like Leukemia. That’s scary. No, forget scary. It’s terrifying. It’s Leukemia! All these crazy thoughts and questions are running through your mind and scaring the dickens out of you. You get sent to this cancer clinic and walking through the door you don’t know what to expect. Part of you isn’t expecting the doctor to prescribe anything other than the length of your stay of execution. Then you meet Lisa. Lisa gets you some coffee. She’s pretty. She’s sweet. She’s kind, helpful and knowledgeable but most importantly, she’s alive! Lisa is sitting there as living, walking, talking, coffee fetching proof that you CAN survive. She’s an angel embodying hope for the future, your future.

Lisa does all this just by breathing but there are other things she does that are equally as helpful. Lisa can give you practical advice. Lisa says, “Whatever question you’ve got that you think is too silly or embarrassing to ask the doctor? You can ask me.” Lisa can tell you her story. Lisa can tell you things your doctor will never properly be able to understand. Lisa is a godsend.

I absolutely believe that donating to LLS is a way to help save people’s lives. LLS funds research that has produced life saving treatments for people suffering from blood cancers, LLS funds clinics that allow patients to receive those treatments, and LLS funds patient contacts like Lisa that help give people the positive, hopeful outlook that is so important when fighting such a daunting battle.

Yep, raising money for this organization is definitely one of the biggest things going on in my life. I’m doing fundraising but also training to represent LLS in the San Diego Rock N Roll marathon on June 6th. I train five days a week and do whatever I can think of to get donations. My goal is 3,000 USD. Both the half marathon event and the fundraising goal are daunting and scary but nowhere near as daunting or scary as facing one of these diseases.

I’ve been working with my Mom-in-law on fundraising ideas. One of them is the Warm Hug. A Warm Hug is a long rice sock divided into sections with a handle on either end. You place the hug into a microwave for a minute, turn it and then do another minute. It comes out fragrant and deliciously warm. You can then drape it around your neck, over a sore joint (it’s especially good for applying heat to those tricky ankles) but my favorite is holding it by the handles slung snug against the small of your back. It’s an absolute must have for the pregnant woman.

My Mom-in-law has done most of the work but I have done my part as well. This morning I’ve sold five, possibly six at $15 per Hug. I like the fact that people who are making donations to this awesome organization get to feel a nice warm feeling over and over again.

If you would like to contribute to my fundraising efforts please, please do! Here’s a link to my personal fundraising website with team in training. After donating you can check back in to see my progress via updates I will be posting to the site.

My Fundraising Page

If any of you donate $25 or more, please send me your address because I’d really like to send you a warm hug!

The Way: Buddha & Christ

2010-01-27T13:49:00.000-08:00

Initially, the lives, teachings and deaths of Christ and Buddha seem very different. Jesus of Nazareth, or Christ, was born into relative poverty. Siddhartha Gautama, or Buddha, was born into relative wealth. Christ taught that he was the Messiah. Buddha forbid his followers to worship him. Christ was martyred. Buddha died peacefully. However, the religions based on their teachings both focus on personal responsibility, the awareness and pursuit of truth, and love. Though differences exist, the true practice of the teachings of these men is essentially similar.

The story of Christ states that he was born in circumstances so strained that his mother was forced to give birth to him in a stable. The story of Buddha, on the other hand, states he was born to wealth and comfort. The two beginnings seem like opposites until you take one more step back. The Christian tradition states that Christ existed in Heaven prior to his birth. Thus, Christ and Buddha both lived in seemingly ideal environments and both chose to renounce the comfort and security of those environments in order to pursue truth.

Another similarity is the fact that neither figure chose to leave their ideal environment in order to better their own personal circumstances. Buddha chose to leave his lush surroundings because of his discovery of pain and suffering in others. His lifestyle had to that point insulated him from pain and suffering. He had no personal interest at that time in solving the problem but chose to do so out of compassion for his fellow human beings. Thomas Merton states, “The basic aim of Buddhism…seeks to provide a realistic answer to man’s most urgent question: how to cope with suffering.” Buddhists commonly refer to this as Buddha’s Great Renunciation. Christ chose to leave Heaven and become human out of a similar altruistic desire to solve the problem of pain suffered by humanity. In both stories the central figures abandon positions of privilege and expose themselves to suffering they would not have otherwise felt. This is a sacrifice both figures make in order to solve the problem of pain and suffering for all of mankind. In this way, though only one, Christ, is ultimately killed as a result of his beliefs, both men can be considered martyrs.

When approaching the teachings of these men there is again an initial impression that their teachings are extremely different. Christ seemingly teaches a strange mixture of monotheism and polytheism, presenting a single God composed of three separate personalities: God the Father, God the Son and God the Spirit. Buddha, on the other hand, presents no God figure and his teachings revolve around self-discovery and enlightenment, not worship. Christ insists his followers worship him while Buddha insists his followers should not.

Once again, the two are more similar than expected but it takes a greater understanding of both teachings to find the similarities. In both traditions at one point a person comes to each teacher and asks for a summary of what they are teaching. In the story of Christ, a man approaches and asks what the greatest commandment is. In the story of Buddha, a man asks what Buddha and his monks practice. Their answers seem to emphasize the differences of their teachings. Christ replies that the greatest commandment is to love God with all your heart, soul, mind and strength while Buddha states that he and his monks sit, walk and eat. But, once again, one must look closer. Christ adds that in addition to loving God, a man must love himself and his neighbor and he defines a neighbor as transcending race, nationality and even religious conviction; encompassing all humanity. When Buddha is pressed to more clearly define his answer he states, “When we sit, we know we are sitting. When we walk, we know we are walking. When we eat, we know we are eating.” This is an example of the Buddhist concept of mindfulness; being aware of, accepting and loving yourself and the world around you.

These might still seem very different teachings but they are, in fact, remarkably similar. Christ instructs us to love God, love ourselves and love others. More than that, he implies that these acts are all connected; that if we know and love God, we will automatically know and love ourselves and our fellow human beings. In clarifying the Buddhist concept of mindfulness Thich Nhat Hahn states, “To me, mindfulness is very much like the Holy Spirit…When you have mindfulness, you have love and understanding, you see more deeply, and you can heal the wounds in your own mind…all of us also have…the capacity of healing, transforming, and loving.” Both religions state that followers should be aware of their place in the world, of themselves and of their fellow beings and to respond to the world with love and compassion.

The last area in which these two men and the faiths they inspired seem to differ greatly is in their deaths. Christ was killed, dying a violent death as a martyr for his teachings at the age of only 33. Buddha died peacefully at the age of 80. The resurrection of Christ is one of the most important tenants of the Christian religion. While Buddhists do not present the belief that the Buddha was resurrected, they do believe there are two Buddhas; the historic Buddha and what Hahn describes as “the Buddha within ourselves who transcends space and time.” Thus, though both faiths believe their founders to be dead, both faiths also believe these men live on in a spiritual yet very real sense.

While Buddhism and Christianity are, like the men who founded them, very different; there are as many, if not more, similarities as differences between the two. As Hanh states, “We have different roots, traditions, and ways of seeing, but we share the common qualities of love, understanding, and acceptance.” C.S. Lewis wrote something similar: “There have been differences between…moralities, but these have never amounted to anything like a total difference.” You cannot argue against the differences that appear when comparing the lives, teachings and deaths of Christ and Buddha. Yet, neither can you argue against the similarity of the core beliefs of the teachings and, most importantly, the examples they left behind.

Bibliography
Hanh, Thich Nhat. Living Buddha, Living Christ. New York: Riverhead Books, 1995.
Lewis, C. S. Mere Christianity. New York: Macmillan Publishing Co., Inc., 1952.
Merton, Thomas. Mystics and Zen Masters. New York: Farrar, Straus and Giroux, 1976.
Thurston, Bonnie. "A Chrisitan's Appreciation of the Buddha." Buddhist-Christian Sudies (University of Hawaii Press) 19 (1999): 121-128.

Why blogs are a good thing.

2010-01-18T11:24:00.000-08:00

I think blogs are a good thing. That’s not really a radical position for a blogger to take, I know. It may seem that it bears no explanation but I’m going to explain anyway because I’m a blogger and it’s kinda what I do.

Blogging is good for historians.

Blogs are a form of journal writing and journals have proven to be incredibly useful tools for historians. The fact that people who want to understand a wide range of public thought and reaction to major events now don’t have to wait until the writers die or are far enough removed from those events they feel comfortable publishing their thoughts in the form of a memoir (often by semi-ruining the information with what Shakespeare called ‘the pale cast of thought’ or what I call retrospective introspection) is, I think, a good thing. With the magic of blogging, you gather information on the immediate thoughts and feelings of people from vastly different walks of life by doing a simple Google search.

Blogging is good for bloggers.

People who are intimidated by a bound book of empty pages demanding to be filled can often find blogging a vastly more approachable medium. The fact that you are often writing to an audience encourages perseverance and persistence when many would have otherwise given up on writing a journal. Why is that good for bloggers? Because journaling and blogging create a scenario in which we actually sit down and think about our lives and the world around us. We take the time to consider events and how they might be affecting our feelings, leanings and even world view. This allows us to learn more from our successes and failures and about ourselves. The ability to look back and read past blogs allows us to understand the reasons we came to certain conclusions at the time we drew those conclusions. Believe it or not, the ability to objectively revisit emotionally motivated logic is an incredibly affective tool in the process of refining the series of beliefs and principles that make up our person.

Blogging is good for readers.

I mentioned historians because they’re a special case and reading doesn’t necessarily describe what they do with journals/blogs; with them it’s more like dissecting and discerning. A reader just sort of takes it in.

Blogging is good for readers in exactly the opposite way objective presentation of facts is good for readers. Objective presentations allow us the freedom to look at facts and form independent opinions. Blogging is good because it not only exposes us to vastly arrayed differences of opinion; it often shows us the process the writer’s thoughts took to come to those opinions. Thus, we not only are presented with a differing point of view but also the reasoning and facts that led to that point of view. We get to see that people who disagree with us don’t do so because they’re just deceived/deceivers with a malicious predisposition etc. There is a whole life’s history that goes into each person’s views on life, the universe and everything and readers get to see that. This causes us to be more sympathetic of those other experiences and, better, to learn from those experiences.

It’s like making plans to place your hand on a hot stove and then reading an account of what happened when someone else did the same thing. By reading the thoughts and experiences of others, you can save yourself.

Another way of putting it might be this: Life is a mine field and our experiences form the map we use to traverse it. As I move forward, I either develop theories about where mines are located or determine through painful experience exactly where mines are located. By reading of the experiences of others, I not only can learn the exact location of some mines, I can also gain knowledge that refines my theories about where possible mines are located. My map only covers a small part of the field. Blogging is, in effect, sharing my map with the world. Reading blogs is allowing the world to add to my map and refine it. The end result hopefully being that I step on fewer mines and live a longer, happier life.

Blogging is good for the world.

I love the movie A Far Off Place. There is a scene at the beginning of the film where Reese Witherspoon’s character is arguing with her father about the ethicacy and efficacy of two different approaches to the problem of poaching. He believes in addressing it peacefully and she believes in hunting down the poachers and shooting them.

Nonie: You know, Dad, people need to stand up and fight for what they believe in, or things will never change.

Nonie’s Dad: People need to sit down and talk, or people will never change.

I think blogging is yet another wonderful chance for global communication. I get to sit at my computer and read the inner thoughts of a teenager in the U.K., a world-wise woman in the Netherlands or a struggling musician on the East Coast of the U.S. There are so many different people with so many different paths and points of view. The ability to share the world with them and be aware of the fact that I share this world with them is an amazing gift; one that should be shared.

Crazy Conversations

2010-01-17T06:48:00.000-08:00

My husband and I are a little crazy, I think. At least, we have these crazy-people conversations. It seems like the really crazy/silly conversations happen when we're getting ready for bed. I think it's mostly his fault.

For example, I got a new shampoo that I thought made my hair smell nice. I ask a simple question and this is what happened.

Me: Smell my hair. Doesn’t it smell nice?

Hubby: (Laughs) Smell my butt. It smells nice.

Me: No it doesn’t.

Hubby: How do you know it doesn’t? Have you smelled it?

Me: No. I don’t have to. It smells like butt. You know how I know? Because it IS a butt.

Hubby: Not necessarily. For all you know my butt could smell like daisies. You don’t know, because you haven’t smelled it. You wanted me to smell your hair but you won’t smell my butt.

Me: There’s a big difference between smelling someone’s hair and smelling someone’s butt.

Hubby: My butt has hair and I submit to you that the hair on my butt smells like daisies and until you’re willing to smell my butt and prove me wrong you’re going to have to concede that.

Me: So be it. Your butt smells like daisies. Are you happy?

Hubby: Very.

Me: You won’t be.

Hubby: What does that mean?

Me: Oh nothing.

Hubby: Okaaaay. … Good night.

Me: Good Night, Daisy.

Hubby: … Touché.

The Why Game

2009-12-30T06:32:00.000-08:00

Last Saturday my husband, his siblings, his siblings significant others, his Dad and I were all going to see the film Avatar. We all divided ourselves into different cars and my husband, Scott (my husband’s little sister’s husband) and I rode together. As the three of us were walking toward the theater I saw an empty McDonald’s fries container lying right in the middle of the beautiful, still miraculously green grass outside the theater. So, I picked it up.

My husband sighed and said, “What are you doing?”

Scott replied, “She’s being a Good Samaritan.”

That really struck me as odd. See, I didn’t think doing something as simple as picking up a single piece of trash and carrying it 20 or 30 feet to the nearest trash bin warranted the title “Good Samaritan”. To me that’s a pretty grand title.

The term ‘Good Samaritan’ comes from a parable of Jesus Christ. He tells the story of a Jewish man who is attacked by thieves on an isolated mountain road and left for dead. Two people, who are not only his countrymen, but religious leaders, happen along and both find reasons not to stop and help him. Finally a Samaritan, a minority Jewish sect persecuted and severely ostracized for their beliefs, stops and helps the man. He not only tends to the man’s wounds and carries him to the nearest city. Once there, he leaves money to pay for the man’s care AND makes the stipulation that if what he leaves turns out to be insufficient, he’ll be back by at a later date and will pay the difference.

THAT is a Good Samaritan. Actually, that is THE Good Samaritan.

The point of that story wasn’t to shame the predominantly insulated and self-agrandzing Jewish religious leaders of the time or to provide an example for people with regard to how we should treat each other. I’m pretty certain it accomplished both of those tasks and that was intentional but that wasn’t the main purpose of the story.

That story was told to answer a specific question which was the last in a series of questions that, honestly, reminds me of the ‘Why’ game my kids play sometimes.

(If you don’t have kids the game is a contest of wills. They ask why until they either they get bored, are satisfied or you lose your sanity.)

So, this guy comes up to Jesus and says, “You know what? We’ve got a lot of rules. A LOT of rules. Which is the most important?”

Personally, I think that was a pretty stupid question. It’s like. “There are a lot of laws in this country, Officer. Sure, I was breaking one but it wasn’t the most important one.”

Anyway, Jesus goes with it. He says, “Love the Lord your God with all your heart, mind, soul and strength…” Then most translations continue it this way “and the second is ‘like it/like unto it’, love your neighbor as yourself.” I hate the way this is translated.

I went to a Preacher’s school. Some people call it seminary. This one was called an ‘International Biblical Institute’. The point is, I studied Greek and that passage is not so simple and the concept is hard to put into words in English. I think the best I can do is ‘the second most important commandment is part of the first’. In my personal opinion and interpretation it wasn’t a ‘do this, and then that’ situation. It was an ‘if you do this then you will, by default, also be doing that’ situation. He wasn’t saying, “Love God first and then love your neighbor.” He was saying, “If you love God, then you automatically will love your neighbor.”

My kids get to take a single toy to day care every day. Today my son wanted to take the ambulance that his sister got him for Christmas. My husband said, ‘That one is extra special.’

Jonathan decided to start playing the Why Game.

“Why, Daddy?”

“Because it’s the one Emmy got you.”

“Why?”

“Because she loves you.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re her brother.”

“Oh.”

That stuck in my head. (You may have noticed that happens a lot. What can I say? I have a sticky head.) Why did this particular incident stick in my head? Because the Why Game session was so SHORT. Because the concept of brotherhood was so fundamental, even to my three-year-old, that it severely truncated a Why Game.

The concept of the greatest commandment and its runner up is that God is the father of humanity and that makes each and every human being on the planet siblings; family. The concept of universal brotherhood isn’t limited to a belief in God either. Whatever your beliefs, if you go back far enough we all came from the same place. We are all related to each other. We are all family.

Jesus in that commandment was saying, “If you love God, then you will love your neighbor. Why? Because God does. Why? Because that other person is just as much His child as you are.”

The parable is the answer to the question, “Who is my neighbor?” The main aim of the story of the Good Samaritan was to teach the questioner that shared DNA, skin color, nationality or even religious beliefs do not determine who your neighbor is. We are ALL neighbors. We are all family.

If the holidays teach us anything, they teach us that you don’t necessarily always agree with your family. You don’t necessarily always like all of your family. BUT you do love them. You make a conscious decision to overlook things in family members that you make a conscious decision not to overlook in people who are not family. Petty annoyances, social and economic differences, differences in religious and political beliefs; they all drive us crazy at the holidays but we put up with them.

Why?

Because they’re ‘family’.

Why?

Because our society decided they are.

Why?

Because we needed people looking out for us.

Why?

Because human beings apparently don’t look out for each other unless they feel obligated by the dictates of society.

Why?

Um...

The First Day

2009-12-28T05:37:00.001-08:00

I work in Cube Land. It’s a magical place of in-between. There are these sort-of-but-not-really walls. People here are sort of friends (but not really) and it’s sort of your home away from home (but not really). The thing is you can’t escape your co-workers. You can try but then you get a black mark on your performance review.

(No, really, you do. I actually got a black mark saying basically that I worked too hard. I apparently “just sat at my desk and did my work” and I wasn’t “engaging with coworkers or making any attempt to be social”. My supervisor actually asked if I watched Survivor and when I said no suggested I start watching the show. She said that “the team” all watched and it would be a great opportunity for me to join in socially. Really. I’m not making this up.)

There are a few phenomena that are interesting in cube land. One of my favorites is the seemingly endless battle between those with hygiene and those without. The combatants are firmly entrenched in the restrooms but the fight occasionally extends to the communal refrigerators.

One of my favorite phenomena is the First Day After Christmas. The First Day is fun for me. People tend to put on this pretence of being grumpy about going back to work but generally are somewhat relieved to be free of the chaos of holidays that are usually filled with people who don’t know where to put their odds & ends and how the appliances work. Coming back to the quiet order of work is a relief but we can’t really say that so there is this affectation of “I don’t want to be here”.

The real fun though, is the gift display. People go to fetch coffee in new shiny World’s Greatest Dad mugs or wearing ties with a binary pattern that when decoded say, “Ties Suck.” They proudly wear inappropriately ornate but new jewelry or walk about with bulging pockets that conceal this or that new and exciting gadget.

Then there are the stories. I can tell the story of taking the kids to the movies and how Jonathan at one point apparently got tired of actually picking up the popcorn, just stuck his head into the tub and started munching. There will be present stories and burnt Turkey stories and missed flight stories. This year I’m sure there will be a few stranded by flooding stories.

Yes, on the First Day we’ll all whine about work and show off of gifted gadgets and tell tales of Turkey turmoil…oh, and work…sort of.

The Importance of Being You.

2009-12-23T07:25:00.000-08:00

If you’ve read my blog, you know that I was hit by a car when I was a toddler. I spent some time in the hospital after that little stunt and made a connection. There was this nurse. I remember her being very beautiful, though I can’t see her face in my mind anymore. She had long silky black hair. One day she was adjusting something and it fell over my face. It smelled wonderful and tickled so gently. I absolutely loved it. From that point forward, whenever she came to check on me she would take the time to tickle me a bit with the ends of her hair.

I had my birthday while in the hospital and she gave me a present; a wire framed, pose-able, plush Tweety Bird. I loved that doll. I kept it for fifteen years before losing it. I packed it away with my things when I left home for Europe and it was somehow lost while I was away. I remember how truly upset I was when I realized that it was gone.

I have a point. It’s in here somewhere, trust me.

The point is this woman had a pretty demeaning job. Doctors don’t have a reputation for being appreciative and respectful of the role nurses play. In fact, nurses tend to be picked on by both the doctors and the patients. Most people don’t enjoy time spent in the hospital and don’t tend to express too much appreciation to nursing staff.

I don’t imagine that woman ever dreamed that I would remember her almost three decades later. I don’t imagine it crossed her mind when she picked up that fuzzy yellow bird that her purchase would make Tweety my mascot, the cartoon character with which I most identify.

There is a disease that has taken hold in the United States and is seen spreading all over the world. It’s a pandemic more disastrous than the much touted H1N1. People in this world have developed the concept of worth that is, in my opinion, dangerously warped. There is this designation of “important” roles and “unimportant” roles.

To try to better explain, I’m going to ask for help from one of my favorite TV shows; Chuck. Chuck is the name of the main character. He’s a computer technician at a large electronics store that is meant to be a parody of the US chain, Best Buy. He fixes people’s computers and cell phones and the show consistently portrays his job as unimportant to the point of being demeaning. Characters constantly ask when he will quit his “dead-end” job and get a “real job”, an important job.

The concept that he appears unimportant in this role but is actually a secret spy and very important, is one of the main themes of the show’s storyline. This is actually one of the only things I don’t like about the show. Chuck the ‘Nerd Herder’ is discussed as an unimportant cover life but he really is important in THAT role.
Example: In the pilot episode, a father comes into the store with his ballerina daughter. He is distressed because the video footage of the dance recital won’t play back. Chuck takes a look and discovers the man didn’t understand that he needed digital tape and has failed to record the recital. The girl is crushed and Chuck comes up with a solution.

The father purchases tape and Chuck sets up the great wall of screens to display the feed from the digital recorder. The little girl dances her part in front of this back drop and the day is saved.

Chuck, the lowly Nerd Herder saved the day! Another example is in a later episode. Lou (a brief love interest) comes into the store distraught because her smart phone is broken. She says something along the lines that her whole life is stored inside. Chuck is her hero, not because he has the knowledge of ‘the intersect computer’ locked in his brain, but because he can repair her phone.

We all need to pay attention to how important we are. A truck driver in the US is absolutely vital. They drive hour after hour alone on dark, slick and icy roads. People look down their noses at them, get annoyed at their large vehicles in traffic or just avoid them but without these men and women, America would come to a staggering and crashing dead stop.

The scary thing about people not valuing themselves or their contribution is we don’t see the consequences of our actions, good or bad. If we really don’t think our jobs matter, we lose opportunities to make other people’s lives better. If we don’t take pride in what we do, how can we really do it to the best of our ability? We’ve been sneering at each other for so long, we’re starting to forget what it’s like when someone really does take pride in their work and provides exceptional goods and services.

The other, even scarier, side of this is if we don’t think what we do matters, we don’t feel as much restraint from being dismissive or neglectful of other people’s needs. We can be cruel and not think much of it because what does it really matter what we do?

I’m sure that nurse didn’t think much of taking a few extra seconds to brighten a three-year-old’s day. That Tweety Bird doll was probably the first thing she came across in the store. Maybe it was an afterthought: Okay, got the eggs, milk & bread. Hmm, that little girl’s birthday is tomorrow. I’ll just grab this Tweety Bird on my way out.”

Yet twenty-eight years later, I remember her and her kindness. She will forever be a part of who I am.

You are important. What you do is important. What you do affects people in ways you cannot possibly imagine.

This Christmas my wish is that we all remember how important we are not only to our friends and family, but to people we will never meet.

She Came Bearing Gifts

2009-12-21T12:56:00.000-08:00

Friday the social worker came for a visit and she came bearing gifts, just not for Jonathan. When I was a kid this happened all the time. My parents adopted kids and had foster kids as well. Christmas holidays, some organization or another would donate toys and such to the foster kids but this didn't extend to we biological children. There was also the fact that a couple of my foster siblings got presents from biological parents or extended family like grandparents. So, every year, my siblings got more presents than I did.

(One exception was this great Christmas where a church in town not only gave presents to all the kids in the family instead of just foster kids, but asked about our interests first and tailored the gifts to those interests and our ages. I said I was interested in drawing and got an incredible artistic package with pad, pencils, and even a pen and ink set. It was fantastic and still one of my all time favorite Christmas presents.)

But presents shouldn’t matter, right? What does it really matter that my siblings often got more presents than I did? Answer: I was a kid. It matters to kids…a lot. I think kids (in America at least) often see presents as a measure of their own value and worth. I blame Santa. In my opinion, the myth of Santa Clause really enforces this idea. Santa gives gifts to good children and neglects naughty children. Thus, the more presents you receive the more worthy you are of receiving them.

After I had de-boxed Emmy’s very nice gifts (No small feat, btw. Those suckers were practically welded in place), Emmy took them upstairs and started playing with them…in front of Jonathan. As the social worker was leaving, Jonathan came downstairs and in a curious but also clearly hurt 3 year-old voice asked, “Why you didn’t bring me any presents?”

This broke my heart. My husband and I tried to fix the situation as best as we could. Hubby pulled out a couple presents that had yet to be placed under the tree and we gifted them to Jonathan early. Unfortunately, my son is very thoughtful and not easily distracted. After he had opened his presents, which he absolutely adored, he came and sat quietly on my lap for a bit.

He asked, “Mommy. Why do more people love Emmy than me?”

That was how he interpreted the situation and I’ve got to say, from his perspective, it makes sense. All the people in his life who love him; me, my husband, our parents, friends and relatives, they have all opened their hearts and homes to Emmy. They have welcomed her and done their best to make her feel loved and at home.

Conversely, Jonathan was dragged along on monthly trips to Louisiana so that Emmy could visit with my sister, who barely acknowledged Jonathan’s presence, and Emmy’s former foster parents who also made no secret of the fact that they were interested in Emmy and not Jonathan.

Jonathan is three. The people with whom he comes into contact are his entire world. So, part of the world loves both him and Emmy but part of the world loves only Emmy. His little mind is trying to figure it out. So am I...still.

I was much older when my parents adopted but still remember sometimes feeling second place in a lot of people’s esteem, even my parents’. They’re such good people and such worry warts that the very last thing I would want is for them to find out about those feelings. You can’t help but feel strange and irrational things sometimes, especially as a child.

Unfortunately, irrational feelings hurt just as much as the rational ones. As my parents attended special meetings for my new siblings or took them to various visits and appointments there was a feeling that all our lives were built around them and what they needed. Since my biological sister and I needed less attention, we got it. It was hard sometimes to go to these places and visit with these people who cared for my siblings and not at all for us and not feel somehow unworthy.

I see this happening with Emmy and Jonathan. Emmy misbehaves in the strange incomprehensible ways only a child who has been deeply scarred can. She pushes boundaries regularly and creates chaos and disorder that Jonathan often finds baffling.

I try my best to give him attention for the good things he does. I try to reward them equally for good behavior and punish them equally as well. I try to make it so they receive the same amount of attention for good and bad behavior, just different sorts.

I can’t do anything about the fact that Emmy has more people in her life that care about her than Jonathan does. And I can’t do anything about the fact that Jonathan is aware of this. It’s not a thing I can figure out.

That’s one of the most baffling things about our lives. I watch Jonathan struggle with the same things with which I struggled as a child. I’ve had decades to figure it out and yet I still don’t have an answer to that question he asked. I understand now that the perspective of a child is warped and that the feelings of being second rate when compared to your seemingly more special siblings are invalid. However, I've no idea how to stop my child from feeling them or even really what to say. Even so, I have to say something, right?

So, what did I say?

I said, “Jonathan, who loves you?”

“Mommy.”

“How much does Mommy love you?”

“More than any little boy in the whole wide world.”

“Does it make you happy that Mommy loves you so much?”

(nods)

“It doesn’t matter how many people love you, Sweetie. It matters how much the people who love you, love you and the people who love you, love you as much as anybody can love anybody. Okay?”

(sigh)

“Okay. I love you, too, Mommy.”

(hugs)

Christmas Cookies

2009-12-17T11:52:00.000-08:00

Quoted from random e-mail:

Christmas Cookie Ingredients

1 cup water
1 tsp baking soda
1 cup sugar
1 tsp salt
1 cup brown sugar
1 lemon juiced
4 large eggs
1 cup nuts
2 cups dried fruit
1 bottle Crown Royal

Instructions:

Sniff the Crown Royal to check quality. Pour 1 level cup and drink it to be sure it is of the highest quality.

Turn on the electric mixer...Beat one cup of butter in a large fluffy bowl. Add one teaspoon of sugar...Beat again. (At this point it's best to make sure the Crown Royal hasn't gone bad. Try another cup...just in case.)

Turn off the mixerer thingy. Break 2 leggs and add to the bowl and chuck
in the cup of dried fruit. Pick the frigging fruit off floor...Mix on
the turner. If the dried druit gets stuck in the beaterers just pry it
loose with a drewscriver. Sample the Crown Royal to check for
tonsisticity.

Next, sift two cups of salt, or something. Who giveshz a sheet. Check
the Crown Royal. Now shift the lemon juice and strain your nuts. Add one
table. Add a spoon of sugar, or somefink. Whatever you can find. Greash
the oven.

Turn the cake tin 360 degrees and try not to fall over. Don't forget to
beat off the turner. Finally, throw the bowl through the window, finish
the Crown Royal and make sure to put the stove in the dishwasher.

CHERRY MISTMAS!!!

Quanah Parker: Born of Two Worlds

2009-11-07T15:38:00.001-08:00

The life of Comanche freedom fighter, Quanah Parker could be considered a microcosm of Native American life in the age of the invading European peoples, specifically the Texans. Born to a Comanche father and an Anglo mother, Quanah lived a precarious existence between the two worlds and cultures. His success in initially resisting the armies of the invaders and, later, in not only surviving relocation to allotted lands but prospering, further exemplifies the duality of his existence. His life was seemingly a series of relationships between his upbringing in the native culture and beliefs and those of the European colonists. By observation and study of his life, we have the opportunity to learn from a man born of two warring people who somehow found a path to peace.
The exact date of Quanah Parker’s birth as recorded by modern calendars is not known. However, if we wish to ascribe a date to the creation of his existence, we might consider the date May 19, 1836. It was on this day that a group of various Native American people’s, including Comanche, Kiowa, Caddo and Wichita; attacked Ft. Parker, one of the early Texan settlements in the Comanche territory. The Comanche had successfully maintained their territory in the past despite advances by the Spanish and Mexicans and sought to do the same with these new intruders. This perhaps explains the violence of the raid, which far exceeded that typically used and even included the raping, stabbing and scalping of a woman in her seventies; Sarah “Granny” Parker.
Ironically, the two aspects of Comanche culture which the Spanish, Mexicans and, later, Texans found to be most frightening were their horsemanship and their propensity for taking captives; both of which were actually introduced into Comanche culture by the Spanish invaders. It is also ironic that Anglo officials encouraged their citizens to slaughter buffalo with the motive of depriving the native peoples of food as this left the Comanche with little choice but to increase raiding in order to survive.
During the raid on Ft. Parker five persons were taken captive, including a then nine year old girl, Cynthia Ann Parker. It is recorded that within only four years of her capture a white man, Colonel Williams, visited a Comanche camp. He offered to ransom her, however, the record shows that her “Indian father declared all the goods the colonel had were not enough to make him relinquish the girl.” Three years later, two U.S. officials, Butler and Lewis, also attempted to ransom her with similar results. They later reported, “A large amount of goods and four or five hundred dollars were offered, but the offer was unavailing, as she would run off and hide herself to avoid those who wished to ransom her.”
Unfortunately for the Comanche, the tactics which had been so successful when dealing with the Spanish had disastrous consequences when dealing with the Texans. In large part due to the fact that the Texans desired land while the Spanish were content to trade, these differences in culture and motive culminated in the Massacre at Council House. It began as a ransom of captives, but when the Texans saw the first captive, Matilda Lockhart, the girl’s mutilated face sent them into a rage. The fact that she was the first captive offered for ransom was an act of intervention on the part of the chiefs and indicated disapproval of her mistress’ harsh treatment but the Texans took her condition to be the standard for how the other captives fared and demanded the immediate return of the other 13 captives. The chiefs refused and, offended, began to leave. When a blocked the path of the exiting party, they struck him down and violence ensued. The Texans massacred all the men in the party and held the women and children captive to be exchanged for the white captives.
To kill during a council was an unspeakable trespass to the Comanche whose custom it was to always speak the absolute truth during council. If this lead to hostilities, a time and place for war would be prescribed but never would war break out in council. In retaliation, the Comanche tortured and killed the remaining 13 captives. Two children had been formally adopted and were spared but later described the revenge taken on their less fortunate counterparts, “They were tortured to death. One by one, the children and young women were pegged out naked beside the camp fire. They were skinned, sliced and horribly mutilated, and finally burned alive by vengeful women determined to wring the last shriek and convulsion from their agonized bodies.”
These tragic misunderstandings began a gruesome cycle of revenge raids on both sides. Charles Goodnight, a member of a party raiding the Comanche encampment at Pease River, recounted in horror some of the vicious retaliation, “the Rangers followed them up at full speed, passing through the squaws…The sergeant on seeing this fell in behind and killed all the squaws.” He goes on to tell of how a woman was seen fleeing and “Ross ordered his lieutenant to take charge of her. I had always supposed that he did it to save her life as he must have heard the guns of the sergeant killing the squaws behind” The woman caught fleeing was identified as Cynthia Ann who though assured of kind treatment was described as being “inconsolably grief-stricken at the separation from her sons and husband.” Quanah never saw his mother again.
Within two years of his mother’s capture, his father also died. At the age of eleven Quanah and his younger brother Pecos were left unsupported, a rarity in the Comanche people. Quanah later attributed this to his white heritage. He sought to redeem himself by “being more Comanche than the full-bloods”. Though little is known of the specifics of his life before the recorded Anglo history, it is recorded that as a young man he had “much influence with his people.”
William Hagan states that “as ability to deal with the whites became the overriding qualification for a Comanche leader, Quanah’s stock rose rapidly.” Leadership among the Comanche was based on reputation. During war, the Comanche would choose to follow a man who proved himself in “feats of battle with no formal installation, term or even office.” In times of peace the Comanche tended to follow men “who engaged in public displays of generosity.” At the same time, a leader in times of war was expected to be generous and a man who was not respected in battle was not likely to command respect in times of peace.
Quanah had distinguished himself in battle and used his influence to forward initiatives to create a ranching economy that was better suited to the Comanche culture than the governments plan they become farmers. This acceptance of the fact that the Comanche way of life had to change but recognition of what would and would not be acceptable is what led Quanah to successfully negotiate agreements with Texas cattlemen. One of these cattlemen was Charles Goodnight, a member of the party that captured his mother so long ago. The two men formed an unlikely friendship when Goodman responded to Quanah’s advertised request for information regarding his mother. Goodnight gave Quanah, an experienced horse breeder, a great deal of advice on cattle breeding and ranching and even made a gift to him of a Durham Bull.
Quanah ensured that funds from cattle agreements would be paid directly to the Comanche people instead of to the United States government. He also obtained authority to charge cattle ranchers driving herds over Comanche grasses leasing and other fees. While he was criticized by some Comanche for adopting ‘white’ clothing and building a ‘white’ house, he was also criticized by some officials for refusing to cut short his hair or convert to monogamy. However, by and large his efforts to remain true to his Comanche heritage and yet be progressive enough to ensure his people were provided for earned him the respect of the vast majority in both camps.
Quanah was a generous, fun loving man. He would sometimes dress a Mexican companion and friend in some of his Comanche attire and watch him greet unwitting guests. When President Theodore Roosevelt visited Oklahoma; Quanah, though not a drinker, had large goblets of wine placed at every place setting. When asked why, Quanah explained that the President had served small glasses of wine when entertaining Quanah and he wanted to show that he was even more generous. Quanah had several wives and many children but still adopted a young boy who needed a family. Though he valued and respected the justice system of the United States, in a dispute where he could find no solution in that system, he respected Comanche law and found in favor of the man in the dispute that had the best reputation. He is remembered primarily for his humor, generous spirit and great love of others and of peace. Born of love in the midst of misunderstanding, bitter hatred and conflict; he fought for the freedom and survival of his people throughout his life. He first fought in open combat; later, in trade negotiations and political hearings. Though this secondary contribution may have seemed less glorious, his work in peace was profound.
Even as a young man he said, “I am young…talking for assistance for my people…the white and the red people…I will not do anything bad, but looking for the good road, a suppliant for the red people, so when Washington hears he will help us.” Near his death he said, “Forty years ago my mother died. Love Indian and wild life so well not want to go back to white folks. All same people anyway.” After his death, his adopted son Knox Beal summarized Quanah’s admirable legacy with beautiful simplicity, “Quanah Parker, my father, fed a great many Comanche Indians. He had a great herd of cattle and horses in 1890 and when he died in 1911, he did not have many left because he was so generous. When a person became hungry he fed them. He could not stand to see anyone of his tribe go hungry.”
Quanah Parker lived at the height of hostilities between his two peoples but developed a respect for both that allowed him to find a middle path to peace where others saw only past hurt and old enemies. An examination of his life yields an example for all of mankind and inspires us to not be blinded by outward differences but to remember that we are all human and are all in each other’s care. We are all the same people anyway.

To Beer Or Not To Beer

2009-10-23T14:01:00.000-07:00

To beer or not to beer; that is the question.

Whether ‘tis noble in the mind to suffer the slings and arrows of outrageous anxiety, or to take a deep breath against an at sea feeling, and, by centering, end it.

To drink, to buzz - no more, and by a buzz to say we end the heartburn and the thousand unnatural shocks that testing is heir to - 'tis a consummation devoutly to be wished!

To drink, to buzz. To buzz perchance to fuzz?

Ay, there's the rub, for in that buzz of drink, what errors may come when we are feeling loosey goosey must give us pause. There's a respect that makes calamity of 24 hour liquor stores,

For who would bear the pressure of time limits, the teachers wrong, the A students contumely, the pangs of indecision, the insolence of admin and the tuition fees that seem unmerited but the unworthy takes, when he could himself oblivious make with a shot of bourbon?

Who would these finals bear, to grunt and swear under a weary study schedule but that the dread of something after school, the unemployment line from whose bourn no prospect returns, puzzles the will and makes us rather bear those ills we have than fly to others we (hopefully) know not of.

Thus the economy doth make cowards of us all. And thus the native rosy hue of intoxication is sicklied over with the pale cast of thought and enterprises of being pissed and happy with this regard, their current wines runs dry, and lose their satisfaction.

My Apocalypse

2009-09-24T06:09:00.000-07:00

Okay, I've been gone a while. Thing is I have been writing, its just its been really boring school stuff. I mean, I don't find it boring but I'm pretty sure you would. Anyway, in one of my classes (History of Apocalyptic Thought) I had to write out my own apocalyptic prohecy which incorporated all the elements of the genre. I thought maybe you readers might find it interesting.

So, here it is, my own personal end times scenario written in the prophetic style:

In times past when our people were among many and lived in peace and prosperity on the great Earth, the chief Iron Jacket, he who it was said had the power to blow bullets away with his very breath, had a vision. This vision he cherished for many seasons and, when his end drew near, shared with his son Peta Nocona.

Peta Nocona, when he saw his father’s vision of the future come to be, shared it with his sons Quanah and Pecos. In the tradition of our people, they shared this vision with their children and so it has been entrusted to me, the son of their sons. Yet, these are the final days. I see the signs spoken of in the visions of Iron Jacket. The time has come for me to write down in the tradition of the white man.

Be still and attend to me, all who are of noble heart and blood. Seek wisdom and peace that you may be spared the great wrath that is soon to fall upon us. Hear the words of chief Iron Jacket, spoken at the time of his passing. Thus he spoke to his son, the wanderer:

My son, on the day of your birth the night fell before your mother’s struggles ceased. I held you in my arms as she named you, then, as the sun rose and you slept in her arms I was filled with wonder and restlessness. Fearing I would disturb my dear ones, I arose and went out to greet the sun that shone on the first morning of your walk.

I turned to fetch water from the stream and beheld with wonder a great sight. I am not a medicine man, privileged to glimpse the spirit world. Yet as I stood wondering, the medicine man of my childhood, he who had passed into the spirit world long ago, appeared. He smiled and I feared suddenly that I had passed into the spirit world.

My heart was sick within me, for I loved your mother. And you, though you had scarce drawn breath a few short hours, were already precious to me. My heart ached at the thought of being torn from you and I wept bitterly into the dust.
But the spirit spoke and said, “Iron Jacket, why should so great a warrior weep at the sight of an old friend?”

And I told him my fear but he smiled again and said, “You are not passed from this world but there are things that must be known on Earth that are known now only to the spirits. The time is coming when the world will need to hear these words. I bring them to you that you may pass them down. When the time comes, your children’s children will bring these words to a waiting world.”

I marveled at this but the Spirit warned me his time was short and to watch and listen carefully to all I saw and heard.

Then the Spirit cried out: “Behold, a thorn is placed in our side and we have been men of strength and plucked it out. Many there are that have plucked the thorn from their sides but many there are also who have feared the pain and allowed the thorn to take root.

The thorns have taken root in the land. They rise up from the very earth we tread and sink into our flesh spreading poison as they go. They creep along the earth, encircling the trees and choking the good, green life from them. Then fall the trees and the people and the beasts, yeah the very spirits rise up in terror and flee the thorns and their destruction.”

And behold I looked and the tears I had cried that fell on the Earth were multiplied until they flowed into the stream and the stream grew until it was a mighty river that rushed with fierce and crushing speed.

The spirit cried, “The people will run to safe havens. They will hew at the thorns and have victory, yet even in victory they will be defeated. For look you, the thorns will diminish. They will rise up as flowers, coated with tears of soft dew. The people will see the tears of compassion the flowers weep and send the young out to the flowers for their caring. The flowers will care for the young. They will grow fruits, pleasing to the eye that they will offer the starving child. The fruits will look pleasing to the eye and offer peace from the great hunger suffered by the young.

Meanwhile, Look you! The tears of the people will flow like a mighty river. The people will be caught up in a river of their own tears, pulled by its current into strange lands.

The young will take the fruits of the thorns and eat of them until they can eat no more. Only when they have been consumed will the fruits of the thorns reveal themselves. They will devour the young from within, not consuming them but filling them with death.”

As he said this I heard a cry and turned from the river of tears. I saw a small man-child and my heart thought of you, my hours-old son. I went to the child to ask him his name but he did not turn to me. And, behold, I looked and flowers filled his ears and his eyes were shut. I turned him to me and when his eyes were opened they were full of the sickly tears of the flowers. When the child opened his mouth his tongue was a dry and dead thorn speaking the death of our people.

I turned in terror from the fearsome child and beat at my chest and screamed:
“I will fight these thorns when they rise up. They shall not do thus to my child.”
The Spirit wept then and said. “Yea, Iron Jacket, you already fight them. For, look you, the thorns are the strangers from over the land and over the sea and all strange places. You fight them and are strong but many there are in these lands that allow the thorns to take root. You and your seed will fight the thorns for the first of seven seasons marked by seven great wars. The first season has ended and the thorns have made their place. You and your children’s children will fight the thorns for a season. Then, in the second season will your people take a thorn into your tribe and it shall become one of you.”

I scoffed and swore this would not be, but the Spirit rebuked me saying:
“Yea, Iron Jacket, your people will do this. The thorn will be among you and one of you and it will give birth to a child who will be a great leader in the third age. This child shall fight the thorns for a time but, being of the people and of the thorns, he will be the man who will lead the people to a safe haven among the thorns. He will seem to take on their ways but he will never be defeated by them and will keep his heart and the people’s hearts safe from the thorns and the flowers.
For in this 2nd season shall come a great serpent, dry and hard and strong as an old tree. He shall glide among the thorns and whisper to them. The thorns will encircle the people. The people will seek a place to rest and find no relief. They shall wander in search of surcease and find the thorns on every side. The great trees and beasts shall fall to the thorns; yea, even the very mountains shall open up their deep places and be laid bare before them.

And so it shall be, for five seasons the thorns shall take root so deep, they shall grow their flowers, leaves and fruit. They shall multiply ever as before and the people shall live as captives in their own land, surrounded at every side.

The thorns shall grow in beauty and the flowers shall weep their tears of sickly dew. And still the people will suffer grief and hardship; hunger and thirst and the flowers that were once the thorns will weep.

The thorns will be crushed by the flowers. Yet, I say unto you, the flowers will share the roots of the thorns and their roots will never be pulled. The flowers will live on and say in that last age, “We are none of these thorns. Can you not see? We are flowers.” But the people will know the truth and be wary.

The people will be overcome with grief for the fields, and the trees, the great beasts and the mountains. They will despair and cry their tears into the night and the night will not answer.

And so it shall be that near the end of the sixth great war, a girl child will stand like a bright feather before the flowers of the roots and show their thorns to them. Many will say in that day, “We are none of these thorns. We are flowers!” But many will believe and will be struck with sadness at the suffering they have caused and the Earth will be wet with their tears.

Then will the flowers look at their thorns and show them to the people and to the world and many will seek to repent. When the flowers see that they are thorns, then will the ears of the children of the people be emptied and the dew of the flowers be taken from their eyes and the dry thorn be taken from their mouths and they shall begin to be healed.

This is the mark of the end times. The seventh season will be marked by the last great war, a war fought in the parched land. In this last age the children of your children will take these words of mine and spread them to the people and, yea, even unto the flowers. They will warn the people of the judgment to come at the end of the seventh season.

When the judgment comes, the land will be filled with sickness. The young will be taken up first, for they were born of the people and of the flowers in the blessed truth and have nothing to fear. Then the old, those who were brought up in the lies of the thorns and the flowers of the sixth age will face fire and torments and through this tribulation their hearts will be judged whether they are still poisoned by the thorns.

The righteous shall be taken by the sickness in mercy and swiftness to await the end of the judgment. This shall be known by the birth of many suns on the Earth. They will scorch the surface of the Earth and the Earth will open up and devour the unrighteous and they will hide 1000 years in the belly of the Earth.

Then the land will be still and no man, woman or child will tread the Earth for 1000 years. The land will take back the scarred earth. The beasts and vegetation will break down and reclaim the Earth that was poisoned by the thorns.

Then, when the 1000 years have passed, the people will be returned to the Earth and there will be no more thorns and no more flowers. For, look you, all those who return will be the people and there will be peace between the spirits and the people and the land again and this kingdom of peace will last for all of time, yea, even to the end of the Earth.”

I am Iron Jacket of the Comanche people and I speak these words to my son, Peta Nocona as the Spirit so instructed me, that they may pass through generations to the people of the sixth and seventh age.

Hear these words, oh you people of the land and of the thorn that you may be found pure of spirit in the great judgment and live forever in the kingdom of peace.

Not Just Un-Famous Fan Letters

2009-08-11T11:33:00.000-07:00

I write fan letters but I've never written one to anyone famous. Does that make sense?

Lemme explain.

I never wrote a fan letter to an actor or singer because I thought, "Well, plenty of people are writing those people. What about everyone else?"

So, I wrote letters to people like the customer service representative who took care of a problem for me, or my insurance agent (which reminds me, I need to send a letter to the adjuster that looked at our car). I even wrote a fan letter to a police officer who gave me a ticket for having a busted headlight.

I think that's a good example of a good un-famous fan letter.

In that letter I wrote something along the lines that she had a pretty thankless job, especially that part of it. That I was sure most people thought along the lines that she was just being a pill issuing the ticket and she might get comments like, "Why are you out here messing with me? Shouldn't you be catching real criminals and actually protecting people like me?" But the truth is she was protecting me. If I have a headlight out, I need to be told about it. Unfortunately, however, loads of people aren't motivated to fix things like that unless there is a penalty for not having done so. The ticket makes us fix the problem right away because we're afraid of getting another ticket. If I didn't fix that headlight and the other failed, I'd be in really big trouble. So, even though it didn't seem like it, she was protecting me and I appreciated her doing her job so well.

I try to send out letters like this on a regular basis, especially to people like that police officer because they really do important work and they really don't get much in the way of recognition for it. Sometimes you have to hunt for a person or team to thank them but I'm sure people have to hunt down addresses to which they send their fan letters for actors, etc. So, it can't be that different.

Now, I love movies. Comedies, dramas, action movies, sci-fi, whatever, I'm just a huge film fan and I get what I call star crushes. I'll find an actor or actress that impresses me and I'll pretty much go through their body of work and also find out quite a bit about their background.

I watch their films and, if I can find them, even episodes of TV series in which they've appeared. I just like watching them play different roles and am generally pleased to see them wearing these different skins so effortlessly.

For some strange reason, reading about their lives prior to their careers is interesting to me and not creepy so I do it. I have no explanation really.

Maybe I think that before they became professional actors, they were out there living without a script. They weren't pretending, they were doing and I think that the doing part of their lives can sometimes be seen in the way they act later on.

I'm not sure that's logical or makes any sense at all but it's just how I feel about it.

Anyway, I recently developed a star crush on Jonathan Rhys Meyers and it has shifted my world view. I was reading about his past, which is very colorful, but also read a few quotes attributed to him. One of which was:

"It's not about money, fame, people knowing you. It's not even about enjoying yourself and being happy. It's about achieving something that's brilliant, creating something that's brilliant, for other people. For yourself, you're always going to be unsatisfied, but if somebody comes up to me and says, 'That was a brilliant part, and I really, really got it'. That's essentially it."

I thought about that. I also thought about another Jonathan: Jonathan Brandis.

I'm going to seemingly veer off topic right now but, trust me, it's related. Please bear with me.

Ahem.

I have asthma and have had asthma since childhood. Very early on I became disgruntled with how the media portrays asthma. For example: The Goonies. It's a brilliant film and I loved it but I cried at the end and here's why.

Goonies Ending

The end of that movie showed something that made me so angry. I've put a youtube clip here. It's in German and cuts off right as it gets to the part about which I'm speaking but I'm hoping it'll still remind people. Skip to the end of the little clip and you'll see Sean Astin's character fumble for his inhaler. The part that's cut out is him pausing, looking at it for a moment and then throwing it over his shoulder in a sort of, "I don't need this crutch anymore." way.

That's generally the way I saw asthma portrayed in the movies. I remember getting upset once that my asthma was bothering me and deciding that I would just get over it, like the kids in the movies did. It was all in my head, right? I had a very bad day that day because, like an idiot, I threw away my medicine.

Then I watched Sidekicks, starring Chuck Norris and Jonathan Brandis. It was a pretty typical karate kid clone with an asthmatic kid as the main character. However, the main character had asthma the way I had asthma. He didn't wheeze as he was breathing in, he coughed and struggled to expel air. The portrayal of asthma caught me with the first attack as his teacher says something like, "Don't fight it, Barry. Just let it happen." (Which sounds oddly pervy out of context....hmm.) Anyway...

That movie also made me cry but not out of anger and frustration at having someone, once again, show me a caricature of myself. I cried because after watching the scene I plugged in below I felt like someone else understood.

Sidekicks Scene

Just in case you can't view it, it essentially shows the main character going into an attack and throwing away his inhaler in frustration and anger. He yells, "I will beat you!" I'd felt that. Like the movies and shows I'd seen were telling me that I was supposed to be able to overcome my asthma somehow.

Then Barry, the main character, has a daydream/hallucination about being tortured by an evil man who uses twisting chains to crush his lungs. Barry says at one point I think, "I can't breathe!" and the torturer replies, "What do you care, Shrimp? You sound like a bagpipe when you do anyway."

Asthma isn't a joke or a punch line. It's a potentially fatal disease that makes it difficult if not impossible to breathe and these incredibly frightening attacks can occur without notice. I live with the fact that someone could dump some kind of cleaning solution into the vents of my office building (that's happened) or step onto an elevator with a perfume to which I'm allergic (also happened) and send me into an asthmatic attack that will land me in the hospital (um, yeah, the end result of both of those scenarios).

Consistently kids with asthma in movies are portrayed as nerds who really aren't sick but hide behind inhalers rather than get involved in anything too dangerous or scary. The opposite is true.

An asthma attack impairs your ability to breathe. Water boarding is considered torture because the fear of drowning, of not being able to breathe, is so very primal. Kids with asthma face this terrifying situation knowing the best way to get through it is to remain calm and "let it happen". Yet entertainers continue to portray kids with asthma as dorky, nervous, and even cowardly.

Watching Sidekicks, which showed a kid struggling with the disease, and with the isolation and inactivity having the disease had created, was incredible. I loved the fact that in the final scenes, when Barry is at the martial arts competition and Chuck Norris miraculously joins his team (it's a cheese fest of a movie) one of those scenes begins with him sitting on the sidelines and taking a hit off his inhaler. His asthma didn't magically go away. His medicine was treated like a crutch but not one behind which Barry hid, rather one that he had to learn to use properly in order to allow him to accomplish the things his disease made difficult.

I know the acting is dodgy and the storyline cheesy but I still love that movie because it made me feel good about myself. It made me feel like it was okay that I had asthma and that my asthma wasn't just in my head. As long as I believed it was just something in my head, I felt like every time I had trouble breathing or had to use my inhaler or had an attack that I was somehow failing.

I would love to write Jonathan Brandis a letter and tell him that. I would really love to let him know how important a movie he probably only thought of as dodgy and cheesy, was to me as a kid. I can't though.

Jonathan Brandis committed suicide in late 2003 at the age of 27. Thing was, I've seen films he did as an older actor. He was good. I mean, really good.

He had a decent sized role in Ride With The Devil, one of my favorite films of all time. If you watch that movie now you see it's an all around who's who of current 'it' actors and he was incredible in it.

He stood up with then less well-known or completely un-known actors: Tobey Maguire, Jeffrey Wright, Skeet Ulrich, James Caviezel, Simon Baker, Mark Ruffalo, & Tom Wilkinson, all of them being directed by Ang-freaking-Lee (I think that's officially how you're supposed to say his name) and there was Jonathan Brandis being fan-freaking-tastic.

Oh yeah, and Jonathan Rhys Meyers (you thought I forgot about him, didn't you?) he was in that movie as well.

Jonathan Brandis was, without question, a talented actor. I knew that but I never told him.

I mean, he has a line in that movie: "Yeah, sounds like real good dirt to me." You'd think that line would be funny but he managed to make it downright poignant.

I don't presume to think that if I'd written Jonathan Brandis a fan letter as a child or later as an adult it would have somehow given him an added incentive to live. I have no idea what might have caused him to make that decision. But after reading what Jonathan Rhys Meyers had to say, I think his one time co-star, Jonathan Brandis, deserved to know how his work affected me. I thought he was a great actor and I now know that I shouldn't have assumed someone else would tell him that.

To that end, I hereby officially remove my fan letter restrictions and will start sending letters to the famous as well as the un-famous (not infamous). I think that I'll start with Mr. Jonathan Rhys Meyers.

Hmmm.

Anyone have an address for the man?

How Hillary Clinton Ruined My Life

2009-08-10T09:02:00.000-07:00

When I was 15 I was a finalist in an "oral essay" competition. It was one of the strangest competitions in which I have ever been involved.

It was essentially a speech competition, except you didn't perform the speech. You recorded it on tape and sent it off. The end result was you would get these unexpected phone calls. "Hi. You've won at such-and-such level and are progressing to the next round." It was oddly disconnected and didn't seem real.

Then one day, someone calls up and says, "You're a finalist in the State Championship. Please be at such-and-such hotel in Alexandria at such-and-such time on such-and-such date." If you're me, you hang up feeling a bit dazed and shouting, "Ma!"

I also clearly remember the paperwork that arrived later saying to bring "formal attire". I borrowed a dress from a friend that didn't fit well and still turned out to look hopelessly shabby next to the other girls. I also remember telling myself I was kind of like Meg from Little Women and that actually making me feel better.

I had no hope at all of winning. They started reading off the top six places and I remember chanting in my head, "Please let me place. Please." I lost hope when they got to second place and it wasn't me. I started consoling myself. "At least you made it to State. It doesn't matter that you didn't place. You made it to State. Cat never made it to State." (Cat was my older sister who also did Speech & with whom I had a younger sibling's borderline obsessive need to beat.)

They announced the winner and I tried very hard to plaster a genuine smile on my face as I clapped politely for whoever it was. No one moved at the finalists' table. I remember looking up and down the table and wondering why whoever it was didn't get up already. Then District Four grabbed my hands and said, "They're waiting for you. Get up!"

The audience laughed. My Dad said that the surprise on my face made it really obvious that I hadn't known I'd won. I got up and nearly screamed because there was a freaking marine standing behind me to escort me to the stage. I got to the stage and realized I'd forgotten my speech and ran back to get it. When I arrived at the podium the plan had been to give me something and THEN have me give my speech but I marched right up and gave the speech immediately.

I was so nervous my hand was shaking violently. I mean, up and down a few inches each time. The stage was pretty make-shift and my shaking actually set things vibrating along the table but I gave the speech and the longer I spoke the less I shook. My voice, amazingly, didn't shake but came out clear and strong just like I'd rehearsed. That has always amazed me.

As soon as I'd finished the speech I tried to get off the stage and back to my seat. The presenter made a joke about not running away and then gave me a trophy so large; if I still had it I'd probably be using it for a hat wrack. I tried to get down again. Nope. They had a plaque for me.

Then there was some kind of memorial award for my school. Then I finally thought I was going to get to sit down and they handed me the best and most mind blowing award of the night: A trip to the finals in Washington D.C.

Wow.

That night I couldn't sleep. My Dad was preaching the next morning and we had made no plans to stay. That fact alone really hammers in that, not only did I not think it was possible I'd win, but neither did my parents. The winner was supposed to attend an event the next morning but we had no plans for that eventuality. It was decided that I would hitch a ride with a couple there who were also from my home town and Dad left me alone in the hotel room.

I remember that night so clearly. As I said, I couldn't sleep. I'd never been in a hotel room by myself, and I'd never been in one so very nice. The floor I was on was two stories higher than the tallest building in my entire hometown. I had two windows and one had a window seat. I had a coffee maker and a desk and STATIONARY. I turned on VH1 on the TV and I remember that Bang and Blame by REM and Take A Bow by Madonna played extremely often that night. To this day, either of those songs has the ability to transport me back in time to that sleepless night.

I just sat in the window seat, drinking coffee and watching the twinkling lights along the river trying to figure out what had just happened. I had the packet they'd given me at the ceremony with the information about the trip and I kept looking over the tickets and the itinerary wondering when it would hit. I just couldn't believe it.

The trip was a bit of a whirlwind. I felt an instant connection with the guy from Kentucky who, because I was from Louisiana, I was always seated near. We went to dinners, speeches, museums... This is the trip during which I met President Clinton.

The contest was run by the Veterans of Foreign Wars (VFW) and held during some kind of National get-together of theirs. President Clinton was giving a speech at one of the events and was understandably nervous. This was before the intern and the lying and one of his biggest black marks was still the accusation of draft dodging. He wasn't exactly popular with the Veterans of Foreign Wars.

I remember we kids, one from each state and territory so 54 of us in all, were sent to this large banquet room area. There were security people everywhere and a secret service agent gave a little speech about what to do and how to act so as not to appear a threat to the President. Nerve wracking.

Kentucky and I were talking when I swear a piece of the wall near the ceiling just opened up. I could see the vague outline of a head and shoulders and was a little freaked out.

I finally decided to approach one of the guys in suits. I think I said something like, "Um, hi. Can I ask you a question real quick?" He said yes, so I continued with, "The guy up there? (I pointed) He's with you right?"

The suit chuckled and said yes. I sighed and went back to the group my mind freed of visions of assassination attempts.

President Clinton arrived.

Tada!

I wasn't exactly a fan of his. It had nothing to do with him running for or being President but something to do with some stuff that went down in his Arkansas administration that adversely affected members of my extended family.

So, when everyone crushed in to shake hands, I didn't fight to get close enough. I didn't walk away or anything but I let myself get sort of bumped back. It didn't matter to me so why struggle. But then he said, "Okay, did I miss anyone."

And there was Kentucky, being all nice. "You missed Louisiana."

Clinton smiled at me. The man really is charming.

"Well, that's not very neighborly of me is it?" He said and stepped over and shook my hand.

He said a few more things and then talked about how kids like us were the future of America. Yada yada yada. We'd heard variations of that speech all week.

I'm sure America is very grateful that I am an analyst for a software company and Kentucky is a rowing coach. I mean, we're happy with our lives but that stuff about us being the future of America seems to have been overkill in my humble opinion. I mean, sheesh. All we did was write a nice speech. Anyway, doesn't matter.

Clinton went off to give his speech.

Mr. Gordon, the guy with the unenviable job of leading us kids around D.C. by the nose, took us to a place where we could watch.

I don't remember what the speech was about. I remember that several members of the audience booed when he took the stage and I remember feeling indignant that they had. I am still a firm believer in showing respect for the elected President of the country, apparently even when I think he cheated my family. It's not about respecting the man so much as respecting the office he holds.

Anyway, I was distracted from the speech by spotting another person standing off in the sidelines listening to it. Hilary Clinton. I didn't meet her. I didn't get within ten feet of her but I watched her all through that speech. People had at that time told me and continue to tell me that she didn't and doesn't care about her husband: That theirs is a marriage that is more akin to a political alliance than anything else. I don't believe it.

She never appeared before that crowd. They never saw her. There was no point in her being there other than to do what she did, lend moral support. She watched from the sidelines with obvious concern for her husband, not her meal ticket.

I think that both of these political figures, "Bill & Hillary", are real people. I saw it. I saw a wife nervous about a husband facing a difficult task. I remember the strained nervous look on her face and then the smile with which she greeted him when it was over. My fifteen year old self had a little epiphany then. I thought, "They're just people." They could have been my parents.

I lost something precious that day: The ability to demonize politicians.

It's really unfair, you know. I should be able to look at some policy or another and just rant and rave about conspiracies and how evil this or that person is. Now, instead, I have to approach politics rationally and with an even temper.

Darn you Hillary Clinton and your obviously genuine affection and concern. You ruined EVERYTHING!!!

Fight Club

2009-08-05T13:00:00.000-07:00

I was tweeting earlier today about fights. Thing is, I've a temper. I'm told that as a person of predominantly Irish decent, this is expected. I think that's stereotyping and in an unflattering way but I can't ever say anything because then I'm just proving their point about having an "Irish temper". Grrr.

Anyway, I've learned to control it.

No, really. I have.

Okay, so a coworker when she saw I was assigned as tester to a certain programmer with whom I'd never worked felt obligated to come over and warn me that he could be a prick because, as she put it, "You've got a temper and he'll push your buttons." Maybe I've said a few choice things here and there but I haven't smacked anybody, not in years.

I haven't been involved in an actual physical altercation in a decade. *pat pat*

However, I'll admit, at one time it was a little easy to goad me to blows, especially on the soccer field. I still have a scar under my left eye from a fight on the soccer field, though it is now so faint that if I wear any make up at all it's pretty much undetectable. I lost that fight. It wasn't my worst though.

The worst fight I ever had has to be the one I had with my sister the night before we went on vacation.

Shine and I shared a room and the age eleven at the time and absolutely no one could get on our respective nerves like each other. I had done something that had angered her. I can't remember what it was but I remember that she'd been nursing the grudge for days.

Shine had a smoldering temper. I had a hot temper. I'd get mad about something; scream, punch or rant and then be over it. Shine would just sit there and stew; ignoring me or giving me smoldering glares, or both.

I was a flash bang grenade. She was a crock pot.

I don't remember what I'd done to piss her off but pissed she was. She tried to get me with her psychological warfare that night. I was trying to sleep and she started making these clicking noises with her tongue. I tried to ignore her. I did.

I stuffed my pillow over my head and as far into my ears as I could manage but she just amped up the volume. She was driving me CRAZY!

I just lost it. I leaped directly from my bed on one side of the room to hers. I landed on top of her, grabbed her night shirt in my fists, pulled up her shoulders and screamed, "Just STOP IT!" directly in her face.

Shine's eyebrows went up for a second, then they went down. I went down too.

She socked me on the side of the head, mainly in the ear: her knuckles pinching the cartilage between them and the thick stony hardness of my skull. I fell off the bed and onto the floor and she was on me in seconds.

She straddled me and started punching at my face. I managed to block her pretty effectively but she got a few low velocity hits in, nothing too terrible. I hit her in the side with as much force as I could manage from flat on my back and then hit the bottom of her jaw with the heel of my palm. She bit her tongue and jerked back in reaction. It gave me just enough wiggle room to plant my right foot and roll us over with me on top.

I chose to place one knee in her gut rather than straddle. It left me more open to being rolled again but Shine had about 20 pounds on me and I was trying to inflict as much damage as fast as possible. I knew from experience that the only way I'd win was through a quick submission and retreat to mutual corners.

I tried a few blows to the face but knew her guard would be up. It was more for effect to keep her busy. Then I punched her in the breast. Shine already had small ones and though I was still flat chested, I knew they were a sensitive area. Her defenses lowered to her chest and I got a great punch into her face aiming at her nose but landing more alongside it.

Shine grabbed my long hair (always a key weakness) in a great handfull and used it in much the same way a bit is used on a horse, to pull back my head and blind me. I reached out a hand blindly toward her face hoping to aim my left fist by feel and got my right middle finger in her mouth somehow.

She bit.

HARD.

I shouted in pain which was the first noise we'd really made besides grunting after my initial eruption. Shine kept my finger locked firmly in her teeth and rolled over. She now had two hands to my one but I was still able to keep her from doing much damage. So, she grabbed my left hand with hers, sort of twisted above my head and started pounding on me with her free right. Thankfully, just having my right hand in her mouth diffused some of her momentum and the blows weren't as hard as they could have been.

That's when our Dad walked in. My poor Dad. He so very much wanted little girls with ribbons in their hair who wore pretty dresses and, I don't know, played with Barbies? Whatever it is that girly girls do, that's what he wanted.

I imagine what we must have looked like to him. Shine on top of me with my finger locked between her teeth. I had a busted lip and was bleeding slightly but she had dripped quite a bit of my and her blood onto me. Two bloody faced little girls trying to beat the ever loving crap out of each other.

My poor Dad.

He was horrified. I still remember that blank stare of utter confusion on his face when he opened the door. We had frozen in place much like cartoon characters when the open door spilled light from the hallway onto our shenanigans.

Dad yelled, "What are you DOING!?!"

We didn't have an answer. In fact, Shine hadn't even stopped biting my finger at that time.

"Get. Up!" Dad yelled in that strange 'you-are-in-so-much-trouble' punctuated way.

And she finally let go. I could feel her teeth pulling out of my skin and couldn't hold back a little yelp.

Dad took us to the bathroom and cleaned us up, threatening the whole time to find a way to leave us behind when the family left on our trip the next day.

He super glued my finger, something he and Mom had done before with small but deep cuts, and also cleaned up our mutual split lips.

I think that still ranks as my worst fight. No one, absolutely no one, has ever gone for the kill like Shine and I also found that in every other fight I've shown more restraint. For some reason, you just go for the cheap shots with siblings.

Funny thing is, years later I found a picture from that trip. It's the very next day, Shine and I have matching scabs on our lower lips, and you can see the bandage on my finger but, here's the thing, the only reason you can see it is because I've got my arm slug over her shoulder in a mutual half hug.

My Mom and Dad talk about us as kids and our crazy fights but we always got over it. Without exception, the next day it was all forgotten. Fighting never solved a problem, but somehow it still made us feel better, which makes no sense whatsoever but is absolutely 100% true.

Sometimes I think that if we could all just land a few restrained blows every once in a while we might feel a little better about losing. You know? You lost the fight but you still walked away saying, "At least I landed that sweet shot to her boob."

Your Real Sister

2009-07-28T09:38:00.000-07:00

Yesterday was Emmy's first day at daycare. No, I didn't cry when I dropped her off.

I was a bit concerned and nervous that she might be scared or upset, though I tried not to show it.

I tried to be very animated and excited. I made my eyes get big as I talked about the playground equipment and all the cool kids she was going to meet. I even tried to make nap time sound exciting. Epic fail, by the way.

Emmy seemed a little apprehensive as we dropped her off but Jonathan grabbed her hand and immediately began running through the building with her securely in tow yelling about this, that and the other Emmy needed to go see.

Emmy actually turned her head to me and shook her head at me as if to say, "Kids." or "Can you believe this?"

I left feeling pretty confident that things would go well. After all, Emmy had her brother with her.

When we got the kids home, they were running around talking a mile a minute about this, that and the other and I was so relieved that things seemed to have gone well.

As I was cooking dinner however, I noticed both the kids standing near the short stairs leading into the kitchen. They were whispering and eyeing me in what I'm sure they thought was a surreptitious manner.

I finally turned around and asked them what was up.

Jonathan nudged Emmy forward and she began speaking though she was looking at just about anything in the kitchen but my face.

"Mommy. Um. This boy, um, there was this boy at school and he, um, he told me, he said that, um...he said that Jonathan wasn't my brother."

Now the Monkey chimed in:

"Yeah, Mommy. He said Emmy's not my sister."

And both sets of big eyes, one a deep creamy brown and one a crackling blue are staring intently at me.

It was time to put down the spoon and just pray the food survived a few minutes pause.

I sat down on the stairs for easy eye contact and explained.

"Well, that boy was wrong. You know how sometimes you really think something? Like you see a toy and you think it's going to be really fun but it turns out it isn't? Or you see a food and you think it's going to be sweet and yummy and it isn't?"

Sage nods in reply.

"Well, I'm sure that boy might think Jonathan's not your brother and Emmy's not your sister, but he's wrong. I don't think you should fight with him about it though. One day, he might get the chance to understand that he's wrong but that doesn't matter, does it? You know that Jonathan's your brother, Emmy. Jonathan, you know that Emmy's your sister. That's all that matters, right?"

Two little faces filled with relieved smiles and Emmy immediately turned with the typical elder sibling reaction:

Emmy: See, I TOLD you.
Jonathan: Nu, uh! I told YOU.

I gave them hugs. They ran to the living room to play and dinner miraculously survived its temporary abandonment.

I haven't been able to shake a tugging brought on by the situation and the obviously deep reaction it evoked in the kids. They asked their Daddy about it at dinner, seemingly looking for more reassurance.

My hubby was surprised by how deeply the accusation seemed to have affected them. We talked about it after the munchkins were abed.

Hubby: Why does it matter what one kid thinks? Why does that little thing make them doubt they're brother and sister?

I could feel the answer but had trouble expressing it. I'm still not sure what I said made sense.

See, I've been there. I've been hanging out with my sisters and had some kid or group of kids state with utter conviction that we weren't sisters, at least, not REAL sisters.

That word real always made me so mad. Kids weren't the only ones to use it either.

Adults would often ask the hated question:

"Which are your real kids?"

Okay, ow. Sorry, sibs, you're not real.

My Dad always made a joke out of it. He'd say something like, "Well, they're all real. None of them are plastic."

Mom would just quietly fume, which is her being on her best behavior. I can still see Mom's special smile. It was more like a closed lip grimace and it's the expression she always had when someone asked that question.

Sometimes, Dad's gentle attempt to point out the hurtful nature of the inquiry would fall on deaf ears.

"No, I mean, which ones are really yours and which ones did you adopt?"

Um, Mr. Sensitivity, we're all 'really' theirs. Eventually, Dad adopted the policy of answering the question after tactfully pointing out that we were all real.

Something like this: "They're all real. None of them are plastic but (pointing) that one and that one are our only biological children."

Dad told us he was going to start saying this because he was afraid that Mom might hit someone if they kept asking the even less tactful and more hurtful follow up questions.

We had all sort of learned to smile and nod at the seemingly inevitable question but it never really lost its sting.

So, why does it bother my kids and why did it bother me and my sibs when people would imply or flatly state that adopted siblings aren't "real" siblings?

I'm not really sure, to be honest.

I've been trying to figure it out. I guess you could try to imagine what it would be like if someone said that you weren't really married. Or why most people go through the ceremony and paperwork involved in becoming married. I mean, why do gay people want the right to be married? Because that title makes you family and being family is important. Having someone threaten that relationship or the legitimacy of that relationship is hurtful.

The simple statement is an attack, really. It's attacking your relationship or the legitimacy of the relationship. It's attacking the love you have for each other.

It might have something to do with the nature of foster care and adoption. When we were in the process of adopting we attended functions and met kids. I remember at one summer picnic I met a "potential".

Parents don't go to an orphanage or group home and pick out a kid to take home. The state somehow decides what kids might be appropriate for potential parents. Then they arrange for those parents to spend time with those kids at events. I'd heard that Wanda was a potential and she had somehow heard that we were a potential family for her as well.

We met each other, as I said, at the summer picnic. I think we were six at the time. It was odd. I mean, we were almost literally circling each other, sizing each other up and asking questions. Then, click! We decided we liked each other and spent every second of the rest of the picnic together. We made plans that remind me of the parent trap on how we were going to make sure that Wanda would be my new sister.

It didn't happen. Wanda and her brother were adopted by another couple before my family made our first adoption. I cried into my pillow for days after I found out. I doubt Wanda suffered the same dejection because, of course, she had a new family to think about. Her family and mine ran in the same 'adopt older kids' (A-OK) circles, so we remained friends for a few years until we got older and developed very different interests.

On the other side of it my siblings, of course, had been placed in many foster homes before being placed with us. They had developed attachments and had them severed by the system. It was a painful thing and, even though you know the adoption is final and no one is coming to take them away, it's scary. Somewhere in the dark recesses of your brain is the idea that at one time this person you love wasn't here and maybe at one time they won't be here again.

So, when some mindless adult asks a tactless question, that little fear sends a little jolt through your system, usually resulting in a bit of a stomach ache and some compensatory brash behavior: Laughing a little too loud at something that honestly wasn't that funny, that kind of thing.

It's scary to be a kid and love someone so absolutely but at the same time have this lingering fear, no matter how tiny, that you'll lose that person. Kids shouldn't have to deal with that kind of apprehension and fear. They shouldn't go to bed at night and feel the need to ask their new Mommy, "Will you and Daddy be here when I wake up?" It breaks my heart that Emmy feels the need to ask that.

It breaks my heart that still, the first thing out of Jonathan's mouth in the morning is, "Where's Emmy?" or "Emmy's in her room?"

They love each other so much. They love being brother and sister.

So, I guess that's why someone telling them they're not "real" siblings had such an affect on them....and on me.

Culture Shock, Journal Letters & SPAM

2009-07-16T07:08:00.001-07:00

Journal Letters

Some people who read this know I have lived many places. I seem to have finally landed in Arkansas. I've lived here seven years, a record bested only by my childhood stay in South Louisiana (14 years).

There are definite perks to being a bouncy ball type person. For one, more often than not, you're flying! You also get to meet new and interesting people and get to know new and interesting things about new and interesting places.

There are down sides to the bouncing bit and that's the rebound. Culture shock sucks. Counter culture shock sucks even more because you don't allow yourself any rope.

When I first got back from Europe I had loads of counter culture shock.

For example, I'm riding in a car with some friends down a street in Lubbock, Texas. I see a street sign that says Utica St. and I start laughing and saying, "Utica Ulica!" I think it hilarious. No one else is laughing. So, I start trying to explain why it's funny.

Never a good sign.

See, I was pronouncing the name Utica in Slovak like this, "Ooo-tea-tsuh". Utica pronounced like that sounds very, very similar to the Slovak word for street, "Ooo-lee-tsuh", which is funny, or was to me anyway.

My friends blinked in that "you're not funny" way and one of them said, "It's pronounced 'You-ti-kuh".

Oh.

So, not that funny after all.

Then we're still driving and the Backstreet Boys song "Quit Playing Games With My Heart" comes on. I groan and say something along the lines of why are they playing that old song? It's been played to death.

Again with the blinking.

Friend: "What are you talking about? This song is brand new."

That's right folks. I changed continents with the just the right timing to get a double dose of backstreet boys. It's not that they're bad. They can sing and they're music really isn't awful but both in Europe and in the States they were played to death and I got a double dose of overexposure. What is that? Double over exposure or is it over over exposure?

Over exposure. Northern exposure. Who cares? Blah! The point is, it was just too much Backstreet Boys.

Then there were the doors.

No, not The Doors (how old do you think I am?).

I guess I should say, door handles.

In Europe there are a lot of lever like door handles. In fact, where I lived in Kosice, Slovakia that was pretty much all they had.

I developed this habit of slapping the handle down and then pushing the door open with my shoulder.

Slap. Slam.

It worked quite well.

Now imagine me returning to the United States, or as I like to call it, The Land of Doorknobs.

When you slap a doorknob, nothing happens. It does not magically retract the spring-loaded latch. It just gets slapped.

So, when you slam your shoulder into the door the only thing that happens is you bruise your shoulder...again...and again...and again.

It took me f-o-r-e-v-e-r to break that habit despite the painful incentive to cut it out. It had somehow been burned into my brain.

Slap. Slam. Slap. Slam

So, yeah. Culture shock is a definite downside and it's not limited to different countries either.

Moving from South Louisiana to West Texas is a pretty huge adjustment as well.

Cajuns are very friendly, touchy feely, huggy people. We went for a visit recently and, I'm not kidding, our waitress gave me a hug at the end of our meal. My hubby was confused.

Hubby: Do you know her?
Me: Well, sort of. She's Jessie, our waitress.
Hubby: But you don't know her from somewhere else?
Me: No, why?
Hubby: She hugged you.
Me: So?
Hubby: (rolling eyes) Cajuns.

Texans aren't huggy people. I guess with all those wide open spaces, they adopted very wide open personal spaces as well. You hug them and they get all stiff. It was a HUGE adjustment for me. Then there was the water.

If you poured water from the tap the first thing it did was get all cloudy and fizzy. I'm serious. There was some distinct fizzing going on. Then, once everything settled down, this filmy stuff formed on the top not unlike the stuff that forms on the top of warm milk when it's been left out to cool.

Ew.

You did not drink from the tap. Everyone kept these huge five gallon bottles of water in their houses or those water coolers you usually only see in offices. There were little kiosks everywhere that sold water. You'd put in your money, pick the number of gallons and then hold your bottles underneath while it spewed drinking water.

For someone raised in a place where you could practically drink the air, moving to a desert involved serious adjustments. Dust storms. Ugh. Don't get me started on dust storms. I'd come home, open the door to my apartment and there would be a line of dusty dirt that the wind had managed to blow through even the miniscule spaces left by the weather proofing.

The horizon was also just way too big. I was used to the sky being hugged by giant trees strung with Spanish moss like freaking Christmas tensile and I got huge, gigantic, down-right intimidating horizons and these poor tiny wind stunted trees that look like overgrown bushes.

Everything hugs you in SoLa (South Louisiana). The air is heavy with humidity that seems to hold you there in an ever-present hug, for crying out loud.

Texas was space, space and more space. You know why the cowboy is always riding toward the sunset in Westerns? Because it's the only freaking thing there he CAN ride toward! There is nothing else!

Like Red Skelton said. "In Texas they got miles and miles of nothing but miles and miles."

Now, don't get me wrong, once I got used to Texas I loved it. The prairie dogs were cute. The stars, oh my freaking goodness me, the STARS! You've never seen stars until you've seen them from the middle of a West Texas field.

Okay, rattlesnakes? You can keep 'em. Not a fan.

And Texans are friendly in their own special way. The friendliness is different and harder to understand when you're an outsider but it's there.

Cajuns are a touchy friendly. Texans are a wordy friendly.

The affection and friendliness is there in the y'alls and yes'ems. These almost coded messages of not just love but respect for each other. The gesture of the tipped hat (even when they're not actually wearing a hat) and "Y'all come back now, y'hear?" is the Texas version of a hug. Once you figure it out, it's just amazing.

Why am I writing about this? Because I was thinking about it. I was writing in my journal letter to a friend from Slovakia and thinking about friendships and the past and culture shock.

BTW, a journal letter is when you take a small notebook or journal and write a little bit in it everyday. You send one of these little journals once a month to a friend who is very far away and for whom mailing a daily letter or even weekly letter is cumbersome.

This is something I came up with back in the days when email wasn't quite as commonplace as it is nowadays. I, actually, only exchange journal letters with one person at this point. It can't be beat for long distance relationships and, if you have a long distance friend, I highly recommend journal letters. They take a certain amount of discipline but are totally worth it, in my humble opinion.

There is no real conclusion to this blog. Its just a blog of random reminiscing and so I will end it with random trivia.

Spam was invented by Hormel because he was tired of throwing shoulder pork away after packaging his hams. Because it had to be pulled in small pieces from the bone, no one wanted to buy it and he just thought it was wasteful.

So, he had the meat cooked pulled, ground like beef and then canned.

When it came to naming this new product though, Hormel was stumped. So, he didn't name it.

It was actually named by a friend at a party he threw to introduce it. He had a chef prepare several dishes from the ground shoulder pork product and asked his friends to come over, sample it and help him name it.

One of his friends finally said, "It's a shoulder pork ham, right? What about SPAM?"

And that is how SPAM got it's name.

Hey, I said it was random trivia.

Eat THIS, Morgan Spurlock!!!

2009-07-15T05:30:00.000-07:00

Eating Good at the Drive Thru.

What? Good fast food? Isn’t that an oxymoron? I mean, we all know that fast food can taste good, but can it actually be good for you?

Um, in a word, yes.

Here are four different fast food restaurants other than Subway (because, let's face it, you don't need help eating healthy there) and at least one complete, yummy, but balanced meal from each.

So, the next time you’re running late, or maybe just feel tired and don’t want to cook. Pick up one of these diet friendly and nutritious (yes, I said nutritious) meals at the drive thru.

1. Burger King

Burger King has some real gut busters on their menu. I mean, those stackers will sure stack on the pounds, but our favorite monarch still has a nice gut friendly meal to offer.

1 Whopper Jr. (hold the mayo)
1 Side Salad w/light Italian dressing
Water to drink
7 Weight Watcher points. (305 Calories, 12g Fat, 3g Dietary Fiber)

This meal is not only low in calories and fat but provides 16g of protein, 29% DV of Vitamin A, 16% Vitamin C, 10% Calcium and 20% Iron.

It’s a good idea to specifically ask for ketchup and mustard when you have them hold the mayo. Otherwise you can end up with a completely dry burger.

Maybe the best thing about this meal is that if you get the water from a fountain or faucet the entire meal will only cost you $2 plus tax!

2. McDonald’s

I know what you’re thinking, “Didn’t they make an entire documentary about how eating at Mickey D’s could kill you?” Yeah, but Mr. Spurlock was intentionally eating only the mainstream meals. If you eat pretty much any meal with a number assigned to it, you’re not doing yourself any favors; even most of their signature salads are loaded with fat and calories. However, a regular hamburger and a side salad with one of the many low fat Newman’s Own dressings can be surprisingly good for you.

1 Hamburger
1 Side Salad w/light Italian dressing
Water to drink
7 Weight Watcher points. (330 Calories, 11.5g Fat, 3g Dietary Fiber)

This meal is low in calories and fat like the BK version. While it offers a bit less protein (only 14 grams as apposed to 16) it provides more in the way of vitamins:
Vitamin A 45% (!), Vitamin C 27%, Calcium 12%, Iron 19%.

The difference in vitamin value is most likely because the Burger King salad is almost entirely ice berg lettuce with only a skimpy two baby carrots and usually a single halved tomato slice. The McDonald’s version actually resembles something that might be related to a true salad.

3. Wendy’s

Wendy’s actually offers several different mix and match options that can result in a well balanced meal. So, I’m going to list four meals for them.

First is the Chicken Caesar meal. You are generally given two packets of dressing and croutons but we are going to only use one dressing packet and skip the croutons.

First Meal:
1 Grilled Chicken Caesar Salad
1 package of dressing
Water to drink
7 Weight Watcher’s Points. (300 Calories, 17g Fat, 3g of Dietary Fiber)

Get this, the above meal gives you 29 grams of protein (!) and the vitamin breakdown is incredible:
190% Vitamin A, 90% Vitamin C, 20% Calcium and 10% Iron.

Second Meal:
1 Small Chili
1 Side Salad with ½ a package of Italian dressing
Water to drink
5 Weight Watcher’s Points! (225 Calories, 11.5g Fat, 7g Dietary Fiber)

This meal also provides a generous portion of protein (15g) as well as an impressive amount of vitamins.
94% Vitamin A, 31% Vitamin C, 12% Calcium, 21% Iron.

Third Meal:
1 Small Chili
1 Side Caesar Salad with ½ a package of Caesar dressing
Water to drink
7 Weight Watcher’s Point. (320 Calories, 16.5g Fat, 7g Dietary Fiber)

The creamy Caesar dressing adds 2 points to the total value but adds 6g of protein and raises the vitamin values as well.
104% Vitamin A (up 10%), 41% Vitamin C (up 10%), 20% Calcium (up 8%)
21% Iron (no change).

The Fourth and final meal will be a burger, because most of the time when you’re wanting fast food what you’re really wanting is a burger.
1 Jr. Hamburger
1 Side Salad with ½ a package of Italian dressing
Water to drink
8 Weight Watcher’s Points (385 Calories, 15g Fat, 3g Dietary Fiber)

Wendy’s appears to be the worst place to get a hamburger. However, though Wendy’s (like Burger King) serves it’s hamburgers with mayo, they don’t offer nutritional information for the burger without mayo. If you take the basic nutritional info that a serving size of mayo is 1 tbsp and that tbsp contains 110 calories and 12 grams of fat (yeah, that is how much a tbsp of mayo will cost you) and then you suppose that Wendy’s puts about half a tbsp on a burger (being conservative here). Then ordering the burger without mayo would reduce the total calories by 55 and the total fat by 6 grams. (330 Calories, 9g Fat, 3g Dietary Fiber) =7 WW Pts.

I am inclined to accept this estimation as it matches up to the nutritional value of other fast food burgers that do not have mayo on them.

Vitamin Time!

Protein 16g, 90% Vitamin A, 25% Vitamin C, 8% Calcium, 26% Iron.

4. Taco Bell

Taco Bell isn’t doing us any favors by encouraging late night feasting with their fourth meal campaign but they are doing us the favor of offering the fresco menu. Now, you can get a slimmer version of old favorites without having to give them a customized do’s and don’t’s list. Because of this, and their extremely varied menu, I’m presenting four different Taco Bell meals ranging from 5 to 8 weight watcher’s points.

Remember all of these meals are the fresco versions!

First Meal:
1 7 Layer Burrito
Water to drink
5 Weight Watchers points! (248 Calories, 8g Fat, 9g Dietary Fiber)

Compared to some of the other meals mentioned the protein and vitamins offered seem a bit skimpy but it has the second highest Iron value thus far. This is also the only vegetarian fast food meal that doesn't require me to eat several side salads. So, you can guess where I go for fast food, =).

13g Protein, 6% Vitamin A, 10% Vitamin C, 15% Calcium, 25% Iron.

A single 7 layer burrito is plenty for me but I know that some others want a bit more. And by more, I mean meat. =)

Second Meal:
1 7 Layer Burrito
1 Spicy Chicken Soft Taco
Water to drink
8 Weight Watcher points. (383 Calories, 14g Fat, 11g Dietary Fiber)

Ouch! An extra 3 points for a chicken taco? However, did you see that dietary fiber go off the charts! Unfortunately, the burrito maxes out the dietary fiber values and it doesn’t do much good in the points arena, but Taco Bell looks like a good place to be a regular.
Vitamins and protein go up!
Protein 23g (!), Vitamin A 15%, Vitamin C 20%, Calcium 25%, Iron 35% (!).

Third Meal:
1 Grilled Stuffed Burrito (Chicken)
Water to drink
7 Weight Watchers Points. (318 Calories, 13g Fat, 8g Dietary Fiber)

I know that there are some carnivores out there scoffing at the vegetarian 7 layer burrito. Well, this one’s for you! The fresco version of this very large burrito is filling and fit.

Vitamins!

Protein 30g (!), Vitamin A 10%, Vitamin C 10%, Calcium 20%, Iron 35% (!)

Fourth Meal:
2 Spicy Chicken Soft Tacos
Water to drink
7 Weight Watchers points. (360 Calories, 12g Fat, 8g Dietary Fiber)

The highest Iron value we’d seen prior to visiting the Bell was 21% and this fourth and final meal is the only one to not exceed that benchmark. Taco Bell definitely seems to be one of the best drive thrus for Iron and Protein.

This meal has 20% Iron, 20% Calcium, 15% Vitamin C, 20% Vitamin A and 21g of Protein.

Conclusion:

It looks like if you’re feeling a bit scurvy-ish (I know that’s not a word) then you’re better off getting a salad at one of the burger joints. But if you’re low on fiber, iron or protein and need to pick up some fast food, Taco Bell is your one stop shopping super center.

So, you see? You can grab some fast food on the way home without going off your diet or breaking the calorie piggy bank! More importantly, you can go to a fast food restaurant and get a well balanced and nutritious meal for yourself just by making a few informed choices.

Take that, Morgan Spurlock!

Silly Cat Song...I mean Kitten

2009-07-12T08:39:00.000-07:00

Sung to the tune of Bingo...though I originally posted it as sung to the tune of Old MacDonald.
[headdesk]

There was a kitten who hated mittens
Cuz she liked to scratch the sofa.
She was very cross.
I was at a loss.
So I up and tossed
The kitten out the winda.

She landed sweet on her four feet
But still she wore the mittens.
She tried to roar at me.
I said she looked silly.
Then she leaped with glee
Right back thru the winda.

She tried to scratch my eyeballs out
But still she wore the mittens.
Her paws went pat pat pat.
I said, "Silly Cat."
She took offense at that.
She sniffed, "I am a Kitten!"

Why? Why would I write such an insane song?

I wish I had an answer to that question.
I really do.

Controversy Concerning Contraception

2009-06-25T13:27:00.000-07:00

There seem to be a lot of people in the Christian community (Hi! Christian Community!) who pitch holy fits (literally) when you suggest teaching kids to wear condoms if they have sex.

In the tradition of Forest Gump, I have something to say about that. You can sit here on the bench with me and listen for a bit or you can walk off. It won't hurt my ...

Hey! Get back here! I didn't actually MEAN that.

Okay, the main arguments that I've heard on both sides:

Pro-condom Expect Nothing Insulting Sourpusses or PENIS' say:

Kids are going to have sex. That's all there is to it. They can't expect to be taught to abstain, it's beyond them. Teach them to be responsible about protecting themselves when, as is inevitable, they have sex.

Teachers Only of Abstaining Sex Text Sourpusses or TOASTS say:

If you teach kids to protect themselves, you are teaching them that you expect them to have sex and reinforce the idea. Because, of course, kids are idiots who can't be expected to entertain a thought without accepting it.

My acronyms might have given away the fact that I don't really think much of either approach.

Hang on tight folks! We're heading to memory lane:

Many, many moons ago when I was but a child my mother took me to the drug store and humiliated me. Actually, she's done that many, many times, some of them not so many moons ago but never mind about the incident of the facial hair bleach that must not be mentioned. [shudder]

No, I'm talking about when my Mom took me to the contraception counter smorgasbord and not only showed me everything on it but talked in excruciating detail at a completely unacceptable volume about exactly what each device, cream and foam did. [double shudder]

This was part of my Mom's promise ring program (It's not a MMORPG, it's a MOMPRG!). You've heard of promise rings, right? Hmm. No Jonas brothers fans then.

Okay, a promise ring is a ring you wear to show you have already made a commitment to your future spouse. Talk about marriage being for a lifetime. Basically, you pledge to remain a virgin until married.

Now, my Mom didn't show up one day with a ring and say, "You don't wanna be a slut, right? Put this ring on and promise me, as God is your witness, that you won't do dirty things with dirty boys. PROMISE!!!"

That would have been disturbing.

What she did do is take me out to lunch every day for a week. (Can I just say for a kid that is AWESOME!?!) At lunch she talked about sex...a lot.

She talked about how wonderful it was and how much she enjoyed it (and honestly, I didn't need to hear that part). She talked about how hormones generally try to hijack your life as a teen. She talked about her views on sex. She talked about how sex was presented in the Bible (Psst! The Song of Solomon is just filthy!). She talked about pregnancy and sexually transmitted diseases...with visual aides (once again, could have done without those).

She stressed that it was a deeply personal decision. She told me about the time she came very close to having sex as a teen and how she was almost instantly glad it hadn't happened. When it came to opinion she usually only gave it when I asked her directly.

The second to last lunch was the infamous drug store disaster. I don't think I've ever blushed that much before or after that incident and I once had the neck strings to my swimsuit come untied at a pool party. I never retied strings so fast in my life but several guys still picked me up and paraded around the pool with me over their heads while everyone else in attendance (and I do mean EVERYONE) patted by butt like it was a dang lucky charm. That was humiliating and yet the drug store disaster is still number one on my list of humiliating escapades.

Back to the POINT, when we walked out of that store I knew exactly what did what to whom, where, why and how. I knew that spermicidal foam protected against pregnancy but not against disease and that a condom protected against both disease and pregnancy. I learned that neither was fool proof and that Mom would personally prefer it if I just used every darn thing on the shelf.

I was given a night to sit and simmer over what we'd talked about that week. The next day, which was the last weekday and the last of our five lunches, my Mom asked me if I thought pledging to remain a virgin till marriage was something of which I thought I was capable. She stressed it wasn't a good idea to make a pledge I didn't think I could or didn't expect I could keep. She also said that she would respect my honesty with both her and myself if I said no.

I said yes. My Mom gave me a gold ring (stands for purity) with a little gold heart (stands for the promise to my future spouse) with a little silver cross inside (stands for my promise to God). She told me that if I ever, like she very nearly had, broke that promise it wasn't the end of the world (note the lack of judgment in the presentation? LOVE my Mom). She did, however, ask that I remember to use every last blessed thing on that shelf and to please take off the ring at that point.

I wore the ring until I replaced it with my engagement ring. I'll also say that my beautiful Hubby (mwah!) presented me with a lovely gold chain along with that engagement ring so that I could continue to wear my promise ring around my neck. How sweet is that? I mean, c'mon! He's just fabulous!

I've only ever had sex with my hubby and I really LOVE sex. I'm not going to try to conclude that the reason I have an extremely health sexual appetite is because I've only had the one partner. I CAN say that only ever having one partner doesn't seem to have hurt me.
I do think that my Mom did an excellent job of balancing the value of abstinence with the necessity of educating me against very real dangers and the equally real peer pressure and hormones with which kids must contend...or not as the case may be.

In THIS case I happen to think my Mama is right. Life is like a box of condoms: If you have sex without one, you never know what you're going to get.

And that's all I have to say about that.

Me, The Monkey And Mommy Memories

2009-06-23T12:39:00.000-07:00

Last night...Ooooh! Strokes song!

Last niiiight, she saiiiid
Oh baby I feel so downnn....

Ahem.

Sorry.

(Paul Harvey Voice) And now it's time for: the rest of the story.

Last night I was playing a bed game with my son, the Monkey (aka Jonathan). A bed game is a rough housing game that has to be played on Mommy and Daddy's queen size bed. (See! See?! I run the house! I am the queen! There is no king size bed, thus there is no king! There is only me, the queen of all I see! Mwahahahaha!!!)

And now back to regularly scheduled blogcasting.

The Monkey and I are playing the newly invented game, Kiss Your Nose. In Kiss Your Nose someone kisses the other person's nose while that other person tries very hard to prevent them from doing so. I try to keep things as even as possible in these games. For example, the Monkey can't restrain my arms, so I don't restrain his.

Oh yeah! When one of us manages to kiss the other we stand (me on my knees, him on his feet) and stage yell, "I'm the Champion! I'm the Champion!" Until the freshly kissed/defeated person gets up and tackles the triumphant.

I had just successfully kissed the Monkey on his nose and was about to start my victory cheer when I felt a spasm in my throat. I have asthma and usually I get a nice long warning that something is up. I'll smell a chemical or pollen or some other trigger. Most of the time, I'll feel a subtle tightness that gradually increases. Very rarely does an attack sideline me out of nowhere.

This one did. I made a funny noise then started this weird gagging type thing I do where I'm trying to get air out but some of the various tubes in my throat have suddenly swelled up. The thing is, most of them don't close but my body reacts like it has to get air out of ALL of them NOW. So, it tries to do this coughing, forcing thing. I usually have this overwhelming need to clear my throat and have to override it because I know that there is nothing in my throat and the act of trying to clear it exacerbates the problem.

The same thing goes for coughing; coughing does nothing but further irritate everything and makes the swelling everywhere worse. It is to be avoided and slow, deep breaths trying to sort of breathe around the swollen shut tubes are the way to go.

The Monkey reacted immediately. He looked at me and said, "Mommy, you coughing?" I nodded (even though I wasn't actually coughing at that time, coughing is what the Monkey calls an asthma attack). My three year old son jumped down from the bed, ran to the bedside table, opened the drawer and grabbed my inhaler. He brought it to me yelling, "Here your medicine, Mommy. Take your medicine."

By the time I took the medicine the shallow breaths had gone from wheezing to those weird barking noises that are the step right before unavoidable coughing. But the medicine did its job and stopped the attack. As I lay back sideways on the top of the bed trying to breath in the medicine, the Monkey sat next to me with this studious expression and a hand on my chest.

I felt guilty. It might be stupid to feel that way since I have little to no control over my asthma but I did feel guilty. We had been having a good time, playing a game and I ruined it. Another thing that both made me proud and bothered me was how ably the Monkey had handled it.

I was proud because he had stayed calm and known exactly what to do which is amazing in a toddler. I was bothered because he's a toddler, dang it! I don't think he should have to deal with his Mom having fits.

Now, Mom, if you're reading this don't take that the wrong way. My Mom is epileptic and had seizures when I was a kid. There was one time, she had been standing in the front doorway when she had a seizure and she hit her head on the door frame.

The blow opened up a deep gash over one of her eyes. When I responded to my older sister's screams and arrived in the living room my Mom had just stopped twitching and I watched her go still. Her eyes were open and blood had pooled in one socket. She was still, a bluish pale color, her face covered in blood, completely unresponsive and staring at the ceiling. I honestly thought she was dead.

My sister told me to stay with her while she ran to the neighbor's trailer because we didn't have a phone to call for help. After an eternity she came back alone. No one had answered the door. The next trailer was down the street at least a block away, if not more. (We lived in the countryside so there weren't any acutual blocks but I'm trying to create a referenceable unit of distance.) I ran all the way and when I got there was completely out of breath. I finally managed to get across that my Mom was hurt and our neighbor took me back to my house.

When we got there our otherer neighbor was already there. He'd heard my sister knocking and yelling but hadn't been dressed. When he'd grabbed some clothes, he came over.

That was a really awful day for me. The next day my Mom dropped me off at kindergarten and was talking to my teacher. Mom looked terrible with a big black eye and stitches etc. So, of course, she had to explain to my teacher what happened. My teacher turned to me and joked, "Did you do that to your Mama?"

I was young enough to not get the joke. I thought she seriously believed me capable of hurting my Mom in such a terrible way. I burst into tears and said, "No! I love my Mama. I don't want her to die!" It took a long time for them to calm me down.

I guess I'm remembering that and I don't want it to be that way for the Monkey. I don't want him to worry about me the way I worried about my Mom. I don't want him to watch me driven off in an ambulance the way I saw her go too many times. However, writing this has made me see something. I don't blame my Mom for being sick. Why am I blaming myself?

I guess it's not going to be the best thing in the world for the Monkey but it's not going to horribly scar him either. I lived through it. He will too.

So, I guess this was a bit of blog therapy. Who knew?

Talking To Myself

2009-06-11T10:45:00.000-07:00

I was looking for a document and found a letter I wrote to my sister a couple years ago. The first paragraph made me laugh at myself, so I decided to post it and hopefully give everyone else a laugh as well.

Dated September 26, 2007:

As I sat and wrote this, I asked myself, “Why am I not just emailing her?”

Since I talk to myself quite a bit, myself answered, “Because then she would have to be in front of the computer in order to read it. Whereas, (myself talks very scholarly when myself talks to me) if you send her an actual letter, she can read it at her leisure wherever she may be.”

Then, because I’m a smartass, I answered “But she has a laptop now. She can read email at her leisure wherever she may be.”

So myself said, “Not the BEACH! She wouldn’t want to get sand in the laptop at the beach and she goes there ALL THE TIME!!! So SHUT UP!”

Then I said that myself was cranky and to get some freaking Midol and the conversation just went downhill from there.

Why I hope Adam Lambert isn’t gay

2009-05-20T12:30:00.000-07:00

Okay, I know how that sounds. Hear me out.

Or, er, read me out. (Why does that sound dirty?)

Lemme try again.

Please withhold judgment.

Whew, correct verbiage and yet not lending itself to sexual innuendo. Finally, let’s move on.

If he is gay, then there are only two reasons of which I can think that he’d not have just said so by now.

1) The American Idol people have forbidden him to do so. In which case, I’d still have to wish he’d do it anyway and then just sue them if they try to punish him for doing so.
2) The saddest reason of all: He doesn’t want to turn away potential votes by confirming the rumor.

That would indeed be sad. I could definitely understand either of those reasons but it wouldn’t inspire me.

On the other hand, if he’s straight, he could unfortunately (due to the intolerance and hate mongering of many) ensure more votes by dispelling any ambiguity and flat out saying, “I’m not gay.”

Why wouldn’t he do that? Maybe because Adam Lambert is a really cool guy who doesn’t want to justify the boxes in which people place each other. Maybe Adam Lambert finds this need to go absolutely nuts over sexual preference as infuriating as I do and flat out refuses to play that game.

If he’s gay, fine. He’s a great singer and performer and I wish him the best.

If he’s not gay, my opinion is he’s a great person who is standing up to the insanity that is gripping our world and saying, “Nope, not gonna play. You can think what you wanna think.”

That’s something I can respect and, dare I say, idolize? =)

Why I Will Never Watch American Idol Again

2009-05-20T07:24:00.000-07:00

I know, I know.

What? You did what? Are you stupid?

You don’t have to tell me. Read the title! I’ve learned my lesson.

Before this season, I’d never watched American Idol. I’d tuned it out as a glorified karaoke contest, ignored it and gone along my merry way.

I did buy a Kelly Clarkson album and consider myself a fan of hers. I also like Daughtry. However, two palatable artists in seven seasons of artists is not a good record.

This year was different. This year had Kris Allen. I’m from Central Arkansas and work for the same company as Kris’ Mom. I absolutely could not escape Kris Allen. His picture was posted in our elevators every Tuesday on a flyer encouraging us to watch the show and, of course, vote for Kris.

Finally, my curiosity got the better of me and I watched the results show last Wednesday. Then I was hooked. I DVR’d the show last night and flipped my way through it, sparing myself the last song which was absolutely atrocious. I think both contestants are so adorable, really are good singers and seem like two very nice people.

So, why am I never watching again? Two words: The Internet.

I like reading. So, I started reading articles about the competition and, boy howdy, did it harsh my mellow. People hating on Kris because he’s a “Christian Hick” people hating on Adam because he’s a “godless gay”. Ugh.

I read through several so-called articles in which the writers said little to nothing about the singer’s abilities and focused almost entirely on politics. One even went so far as to describe the race entirely in political terms.

If you read this blog, you know I live in Central Arkansas and you know that I’m a Christian. I adore Adam Lambert. I can’t help it, he’s adorable. I work in theater as an amateur but can recognize stage presence and theatricality. He’s an amazing showman.

Kris is very different. Kris is a musician. His focus always seems to be on bringing out the melody, not on theatrics. He comes across as very sincere and has the ability to connect with an audience in a more subtle and moving way more often than Adam.

At the same time, Adam’s exciting theatrics are off putting to some people who find him fake and Kris’ quiet sincerity come across to many people as just plain dull. They tend to appeal in very different ways to very different people.

However, this doesn’t matter to anyone. All they want to talk about is if Adam is gay and why, if he loses, it won’t be because Kris is a better performer but only because of homophobia.

That really gets me hot under the collar.

I want to think that, if Kris wins, it was because his quiet sincerity and musicality appealed to slightly more people than Adam’s exciting energy and theatrics. Or, if Adam wins, it was because people accepted that he was putting on a show and didn’t find him “fake” and were inclined to go get a sandwich or take a quick nap during Kris’ performances.

The comments of the authors of articles and the comments made regarding those articles lead me to believe that there are people out there not voting for Kris or Adam but against one or the other. There are people out there who voted for Kris because they’re spiteful hateful little minds who can’t stand the idea of Adam being gay. There are people out there who voted for Adam because they’re spiteful hateful little minds who can’t stand the idea of Kris being a Christian.

The fact that people are voting against a contestant, instead of for a contestant, has truly made this a political event and I’ve had enough of politics.

And that is why I’ll never, ever watch American Idol again.

2009-05-15T09:27:00.000-07:00

I found some old poems today and am consequently feeling poetic. I'm also really frustrated and felt like screaming at the wind. Then it occurred to me that the wind gets lots of really hard to answer questions thrown at it. The combination of that thought and my poetic state of mind produced the following poem.

Be nice.

Unanswered

Shapeless
Unseen
They shared what had been

The South spoke of rain
It turned into storms
The North spoke of snow
It gathered and swept

The East spoke of sand
It turned into death
The West spoke of fires
It shepherded, kept

This was their custom
This was their way
To crash and roar
To have their say

Again, the four great movers met
Had they found the answers yet?

They asked,
Their own question
The only reply
To the questions we scream
And laugh
And cry

Out to the four winds
The powers who sigh
Bowing trees low
Turning waves into spray
Their sighs moved the heavens
As they went on their way

For again they had no answers

Adoption Class

2009-05-03T09:14:00.000-07:00

I started tweeting like mad earlier today and realized that I didn’t want to microblog about a certain subject. I wanted to blog about it.

Foster Care, Adoption & Me:

First of all, background check. (Little inside-the-system joke. Okay, it wasn't funny. Moving on.)

Hi! My name is Annie and my parents were foster/adoptive parents. However, I was not a foster/adopted child. That’s a relatively important distinction.

It means: I had the benefit of a stable, loving home but, at the same time, have been aware of the nasty ickiness in the world from a very early age. You’ll note (I hope) that I am still a nice, well-adjusted person and was not horribly scarred or mentally anguished by having been raised with foster/adopted siblings.

For the record: I love my siblings and think they are amazing: Even my sister who is struggling right now and whose daughter I am adopting.

What? You may ask that question. Go ahead.

I can’t tell people how bad Rita’s childhood was. Really. I know things my parents don’t know and I won’t tell them because they’re awful, terrible, disturbing things. The fact that my sister is alive and functioning in any capacity is a freaking miracle.

Rita is still messed up right now but she’s alive and, on some levels, functional. Yes, Rita didn’t straighten up and fly right in order to get her daughter back. That hurts: Especially after seeing all these testimonies of people who have done that very thing. But here is something GOOD about Rita.

Rita quit using drugs when she was pregnant, EVERY SINGLE TIME. You think that’s easy? You think most mothers automatically do that? No. They don’t. Rita is on a long road but there is definitely hope for her because of every member of my family and, most especially, because of my parents.

I’ve mentioned in the past that my parents are saints. Overall some of the most wonderful people you’ll ever meet. They’re getting older and starting to do that thing where they take politics way too seriously…or maybe they’re finally taking it seriously enough. Who knows? I’m not there yet. But still, they are some of the most wonderful people you will EVER meet.

Back to point!

The point is, my parents were watching the news one night and saw a problem. Children in a state system being shuffled like the jokers in a deck of cards.

“Ooops! I got the Joker! How’d that happen? Someone take this back and give me a real card.”

Rather than cluck their tongues and say, “Aw, that’s a shame; those poor kids.” Like 99% of us would do, my parents actually got up and did something about it. Going through the process of becoming a foster/adoptive parent has made my admiration of them skyrocket.

I know now that they didn’t walk down to an office and say, “Hey, you know all those kids who desperately need homes? I’ve got one!”

And have the office say, “Oh! You saint! Thank you SO MUCH! We really, desperately NEED you! Here fill out some forms, we’ll send someone to check out your house right away and do a background check that will take, at most, a month. In two weeks, be back here for a weekend of training. Don’t worry about your kids. We’ll provide child care with professionals that will use age appropriate methods to explain the situation to them because, after all, your kids are a part of this process as well, right? Assuming no red flags go up, we’ll have you ready to go in six weeks tops.”

That is precisely, exactly what did NOT happen. It was pretty much the opposite. It’s like the information, even the first phone number, you need is top secret. It’s locked in a suitcase that, I swear, is hiding up the butt of one of these tight cheeked bureaucrats. (BTW, isn’t bureaucrat the most PERFECTLY spelled word? It’s needlessly complicated.)

There is a serious problem here! Good homes taking in kids, is the solution. So, of course, the system seems to be centered around discouraging as many of these people as possible. The dastardly method? Red freaking TAPE!

There are just so many flaming hoops through which your average person is willing to jump before they say, “You know what? I’m trying to help you out here! I’m leaving.”

Now, there is a Christian organization in Arkansas that tries to recruit foster/adoptive parents and cut through as much red tape as possible. My hubby and I are actually going through this process with them and it’s still discouraging.

Instead of 10 weeks of 3 hour classes, it’s two weekends. Two 9 hour days and two 6 hour days of sorting through depressing stories and statistics that make you want to grab the nearest politician by his overpriced lapels and scream, “WAKE UP!!!” in his face repeatedly…and I mean repeatedly.

You know when you’re watching Family Guy, and they have those quirky asides that last too long? THAT repeatedly.

(Incidentally, how awkward is it that I had to type the numbers two and nine, and also, two and six consecutively in a sentence and yet still give the impression that they were not the mistyped numbers 29 or 26? Come to think of it, that incidental sentence commenting on the awkward sentence was also awkward. Fittingly, awkward is a very awkwardly spelled word. Ye gad! Okay! I’m stopping now!)

Doot. Doot. Doot. Ah!

Sorry, I’d forgotten what I was writing about. Back on point! Bureaucracy!

Part of adoption class is looking at really depressing statistics and stories. The fact is that the number of kids being abused and neglected keeps going up every year. What I was told yesterday is that currently in the US, one in five children will be sexually abused before reaching age 18. The number is one in four girls and one in ten boys.

So, naturally, the good Christian folks in my class asked if Christianity being taken out of schools etc. was the reason for the increase in these issues.

My answer? Nope.

Hmm, this IS a blog. Maybe I should expand on that.

My expanded answer is; bureaucracy is the problem. Americans stopped taking care of each other at some point. They stopped caring for the widows and orphans. Instead, they told the government to do it for them.

“Here, I’ll give you tax money. You hire someone to do it and then I don’t have to feel bad OR do anything! Win-Win!”

The problem is the government isn’t well suited for this type of thing and it’s all gone to hell. Yes, Mom. (If you’re reading this.) I said, hell. Maybe I should capitalize it? Nah, I’ll write it in all caps.

H-E-L-L. My definition of Hell is a place without God. Since God is love and all love and goodness and love come from him, Hell is a place in which love and caring do not exist.

This situation is my definition of HELL on Earth for so many of these kids.

Adoption class points out the primary focus for the foster care system: Get the kids back with their parents.

Train a parent up in the way he should go and when he gets his kids back he won’t neglect/sexually abuse/physically abuse them. That’s their motto!

The idea is that these parents haven’t been taught through example how to be parents. They don’t have any kind of support system in the community. They don’t have anyone helping them or teaching them how to help and teach their kids. They have emotional problems or addiction problems that cause them to act toward their kids in a way they wouldn’t otherwise act.

If you can treat the emotional or addiction problems and give the parents the support they need, they can be the parents the kids need. The kids have attachments, which is GOOD!!!

So, treat the kids. Treat the parents. Make happy productive families.

The problem is you have people like my sister. I love my sister, but this training has shown me one thing definitively: my sister doesn’t really want her daughter back. She’s going through the motions.

I’ve watched these videos and listened to all of these birth mothers and fathers talk about how devastated they were when their kids were taken from them. How hard they worked to get them back.

I’ve listened to my sister make excuses for the live in boyfriend whose arrest cost her the decision of her custody hearing. Your kid comes first.

If someone took my son, I’d crawl up a net of barbed wire to get him back. I would do anything asked. I would visit my son absolutely every opportunity I got for as long as I could.

My sister makes excuses and throws around blame like it’s confetti. She’s not alone. There are definitely parents out there that feel they have to put up a fight, society demands they do, but when push comes to shove, they don’t actually do anything they’re required to do in order to get their kids back.

So, what do you do with those kids?

Find them families. That sounds simple but people have been trained by the media to see these kids as damaged goods. They’ve been neglected and abused and they’ll never be right again. There is no way to fix them. They’re the jokers in the deck. There’s no value assigned to them. At the very best, they’re wild cards and at the end of the day, no one wants them in their hand.

Bullshit!

(My Mom’s going to kill me…I guess I could say crap but that’s semantics really and I’m kind of going for the reaction here so…)

BULLSHIT!

There are great kids in the system that have problems that will take years and years and years for them to even be able to properly grasp. But these problems are not insurmountable if someone cares enough to reach out and help them; really help them.

Will they magically overcome their problems by age 18? Maybe. Probably not.
Will they stop needing you at age 18? Definitely not.
Will they think they don’t need you at age 18? Probably.
Will taking care of a child who has been abused be hard? Yes.
Will it be harder than raising a baby or biological child that was always loved and was raised in a predictable and loving environment? Yes.

But, in general, do the things worth doing in life tend to be easy?

Lost.

2009-02-27T08:52:00.000-08:00

One of my twitter friends sent out a suggestion that we write a blog post centered on the word "lost" and what it evokes in us. So, I reflected and tried to think of the moment in my life when I felt the most lost.

My mind took me back to when I was two years old. It’s odd but I do actually remember being two fairly well. My parents were moving us from the Dallas, TX area to New Iberia, LA. Because of this, I and my older sister were staying in Fayetteville, AR with my Grandparents.

My Grandmother took care of the older widows in her neighborhood. She would mow their lawns for them, help them with chores around the house or take them to the grocery store. While we were visiting her, she took us around to all their houses to say, “Hi.” And brighten their days.

I don’t remember what day of the week it was but it was early in the afternoon when the event I’m rambling toward took place. My Grandmother loaded us into her boat of a car, this was 1981 after all, and took us to Aunt Thelma’s house. Of course, Aunt Thelma was no relation to us but that didn’t seem to matter. Our mission was to take her to a department store to help her get some needed shopping done.

We arrived and bought the needed items without incident. However, when it was time to go, Grandma noticed that Aunt Thelma had been worn out by traipsing around the large store. She decided to have us wait by the entrance and bring the car around.

Once Aunt Thelma was situated in the front seat, my older sister and I tried to climb in. I do mean “climb” in. That car was huge to my little two year old self. I was struggling and my sister, unfortunately, wasn’t helping. She was pushing me but against the car instead of up into the back seat.

My Grandmother leaned over the front seat to offer me a hand and I’m not sure what she did to make what followed happen but the car suddenly surged backward. The open car door hit me with a great deal of force and I fell. Almost instantly the front wheel was up and over me and I was left lying on the ground.

My Grandmother panicked and didn’t apply the brakes for a few very long seconds which allowed the car to travel some distance from where I had fallen. My older sister had been grasping the inside handle of the car door and was knocked off her feet but not under the car as I had been. She was, however, dragged quite a long distance across the rough asphalt and had severe abrasions. Also, when my Grandmother applied the brakes she did so very suddenly and the car door tried to slam shut over my sister, causing some very painful bruising.

While my older sister’s injuries were basically superficial, they were very painful and the situation so sudden that she went into shock. I remember hearing her screaming and turning my head. For some reason, I didn’t even try to get up or move. I didn’t feel any pain. I just felt strange. I watched my sister get up and start a limping pace; back and forth. Someone rushed over and picked her up and I remember her sobs turning into an intense screaming. Then she went quiet and there were a lot of people between her and me. Then I saw her being carried over to a car. She was now wrapped in a blanket and they put her on the hood of the car.

No one seemed to notice me. My sister had started crying again and I realized she was crying out my name. I don’t know why, but I didn’t answer. Everything seemed to be telling me to be very still. I noticed my Grandmother talking to my sister and then yelling and looking around.

She saw me and ran over. She asked me questions in a very soft voice. I don’t remember exactly what they were and I don’t remember answering her. She picked me up very gently and I was relieved that there was no pain, though I frightened that I expected it.

An ambulance arrived and they started to load my sister onto a board and into the ambulance. She started screaming my name at that point and asking where I was. I still didn’t say anything.

My Grandmother walked over to one of the ambulance drivers and told him she thought she had run over me. He argued with her but she was adamant. I remember her saying she knew she had run over something and my sister had claimed it was me. I remember the ambulance driver being very annoyed and telling my Grandmother that I looked fine and to take me home. If I was still acting strangely in an hour, bring me to the hospital.

Then my Grandmother started yelling and I don’t remember the exact words, just that the yelling scared me. I, at this point, was terrified of the ambulance driver.

He reached out and grabbed me roughly out of my Grandmother’s arms and I finally felt the pain. It was like someone had spilt something very hot on my abdomen. It really did feel wet and spread outward. I heard screaming and it took me a moment to realize it was me. I felt like I was being peeled apart, it was absolutely terrible awful pain.

The ambulance driver moved me quickly over to the ambulance at that point. I could hear my sister and was actually comforted to know that she was closer but I couldn’t stop screaming. I wanted to stop because my throat was already hurting from it but it was completely out of my control.

They tied me to a board which made the pain much worse. I saw my sister, but then they put a brace on my neck and I couldn’t see her anymore. I started crying out her name and could hear her, so close to me, crying mine.

I have never in my life felt so lost and alone as I did for those few minutes in that ambulance when I was tied to a board in mind numbing pain, unable to move or look at anything but the ceiling above me.

I knew my parents were very far away. My Grandmother had left me and though my big sister seemed to be right there, all I could do was listen to her scream.

Then I felt someone fiddling with the straps and my right arm came free. A large hand moved mine and suddenly I was grasping a very familiar small hand, my sister’s. Someone had freed our arms and put our hands together.

I squeezed my sister’s hand and felt connected again. My sister stopped crying. She squeezed my hand back and told me I was okay. Hearing her voice made me feel safe and somehow oriented in the world again. I managed to stop crying and we rode the rest of the way to the hospital in almost complete silence.

When we arrived, I was removed first. The very last thing I remember on that day is someone forcefully removing my hand from my sisters. I think that was the point I lost consciousness.

The rest of the story is that I had broken my pelvis and done some damage to various abdominal organs but made an almost 100% complete recovery.

I spent some time in the hospital. The feeling that my stay there would never end wasn’t helped by the fact that I actually had my third birthday there. All in all it was probably only two weeks to a month. I’m really not sure.

The entire time I was away from home, my sister would sleep walk at night. In her sleep she would wander around my Grandparents house calling my name and looking for me.

In the hospital I would call her name in my sleep. When she was visiting, no one else was allowed to push my wheel chair and for quite some time after the accident, she had a hard time letting me out of her sight.

I don’t think I will ever forget that on the day and moment in my life when I was the most lost; the person who found me and made me feel safe was my big sister.

I’m not sure now if it’s because of that or just because she is my big sister, but nothing in my life seems real until I’ve told her. It’s like I orient myself around her. Whenever I am hurt or lonely or lost, the person to whom I turn for direction has always been and will always be my big sister.

Life Changing Leaves

2009-02-23T10:16:00.000-08:00

Not THOSE leaves.

Okay, so I had a salad today that may have changed my life. Yes, it was that good. Very good…Matrix-Reloaded-Cake-Scene-Good.

However, that’s not why it may have changed my life.

I’m getting there, don’t rush me.

The sandwich guy has been selling out of my favorite, cucumber and cream cheese with romaine and tomato, before I get to him lately. Instead, I’ve been getting a romaine salad and a fresh fruit cup. Today, he actually had the cucumber sandwich but suggested I try a new salad. It was fruit, nuts and romaine with a creamy sweet dressing.

I debated for a moment…a long moment. I mean, I haven’t been able to have my regular cucumber sandwich for almost a week but that salad really did look good. Hmm. Should I stick with tried and true or take a chance on something new?

Yes, I know that rhymes. Let’s move on.

I got the salad and, as you’ve already read, it was AMAZING. Completely worth it.

Here’s how this situation may have changed my life:

I recently applied for another job. It’s in a department in which I used to work. It’s more pay and promises an interesting and varied work environment. However, that potentially interesting work environment could also potentially be hostile or otherwise miserable.

I don’t know. The supervisor could be mean or my coworkers could be mean, there could be an overall overabundance of meanness. I kept thinking about it and worrying about it.

Today, I was very close to emailing HR to withdraw my application. I was thinking, “I’m fine where I am. Why would I risk that for an unknown?”

Then I had the salad. Yeah, it was a tiny risk but it totally paid off. This is, without doubt, one of the best salads I’ve ever eaten. If I hadn’t taken a chance, I’d never know that.

So, no, Scaredy-Cat me! I’m not withdrawing my application. I’m going through with it because if I don’t try new things, I’ll miss out on the near orgasmic salads of awesomeness the world is holding onto for me.

So, You Had A Bad Day

2009-02-19T06:10:00.000-08:00

Good Golly Miss Molly was yesterday a bad day.

I don't want to give you a downer so I'll only tell you the funny parts.

Okay, first of all: Bad Hair Day. Believe me, it was funny.

Then it seemed the wind was trying to be helpful by giving me that wind-blown-helmet-hair look. Sadly, and hilariously, this seemed to actually be an improvement.

Have you ever started pedaling your way down the street and noticed something was off? You start trying to check various mechanisms on your bike while you ride, to figure out what's making the ride so strange, and then you realize you left your helmet on the couch.

You know that if you go back, you might miss your bus so you consider forgetting about it just this once. Then you remember Murphy's Law and the fact that you have a 2 year old and you go back.

You grab the helmet and start pedaling like Chef Gordon Ramsey is chasing you with a cleaver and wearing his "mean face". Your lungs are about to explode out of your chest but you see the intersection and start to relax.

Then you see the bus. But the light! The light turns green and the bus stops because its light has turned RED. You get a second wind and start screaming, "Stay Green! Stay Green!" You realize that the people staring at you now definitely think you’re a militant environmentalist but YOU DON'T CARE!!! Because you're almost there!

Then your light turns red, the bus' light turns green and you watch it pass you by. You wait 30 minutes and catch the next one.

You may find yourself in a strangely brighter world. You may find yourself in a strangely empty bus. You may tell yourself; this is not my beautiful bus. You may ask yourself, How did I get here?

Okay, I'll stop that now.

Anyway, the rest of the story involves militant car drivers, a mud puddle and riding the elevator with my VP in what can only be described as a disreputable state (me, not her).

Sigh.

Well, I did get to take in a beautiful sunrise that morning, and it wasn't cold and/or rainy. Also, I had the most wonderful evening with the Monkey the night before.

The Hubby didn't get home until past ten, so the Monkey and I had a little adventure. We went to the park. Then we went to a pizza place and ordered a vegetarian pizza. The Hubby hates it but the Monkey prefers veggie pizza too.

While the pizza was being cooked, we went to the book store next door. I told the Monkey he could pick out one new book and he brought me six.

I said, "That's six, Monkey. Not one."
He said, "No, Mommy. This is one. And this is one. And this is one...etc."

Okay, he didn't say etc. That was just so I wouldn't have to write 'and this is one' five times.

Anyway, we solved the problem by sitting in the aisle and reading all six. Then he picked his favorite: Bunny Trouble.

BTW, it's about time someone wrote a book about the trouble with bunnies. I watched Rabbit Proof Fence and I don't remember seeing a single bunny. I thought, "Finally, someone is pointing out the trouble with bunnies." But no.

OMG, this blog post is ridiculously silly. I guess my natural reaction to bad days is to get ridiculously silly. It's my meager attempt to cheer myself up. It usually works pretty well.

Well, here’s hoping you have a good day…or at least a funny bad one.

Crazy Kismet

2009-02-18T11:46:00.000-08:00

My sister sent me a chain text today. One of those, “now text this to six people and see what happens” things.

This one asked the question: What’s the first thing you remember about meeting me?

Now, considering she’s my sister and we’re the same age, that sounds like a silly question to ask. However, she was adopted when we were eight. So, not so silly after all.

Little info on my family: My parents collected kids. My parents are AWESOME. My husband calls them the world’s poorest philanthropists and says they’re too good for their own good. Then he smiles smugly, extremely pleased with himself.

My first thought when one of my favorite sis’ asked me this was to go back to that incredibly awkward day when I was pulled out of school early by my parents to meet my new sisters. (My parents usually adopted in multiples of two. They actually made the font page of The Daily Iberian once with the headline “Two By Two By Two”.)

Anyway, Shiney and Susan were the first adoptees in our family so we hadn’t figured out exactly how things worked.

When Shiney asked that question my mind went to standing there like a dolt wondering what to say to these two girls that were suddenly part of the family. Then, I remembered the fact that Shiney and I had met before that.

See, I had this best friend growing up named Kelly. She lived in the same trailer park and we had the exact same birthday. Well, Kelly’s parents had upward mobility and moved to Lafayette into an honest to goodness house. I remember they were the first to get out of a trailer.

Anyway, Kelly moves to a new city, goes to a new school and gets a new best friend. What’s really weird is that Kelly’s new best friend turned out to be Shiney. Our parents decided to throw Kelly’s and my seventh birthday parties together and, of course, Kelly invited her new best friend Shintina (Shiney).

That’s how it came to be that I met my sister over a year before we adopted her. Being the freak that I am when it comes to memory, I was the only person who actually realized this.

But, seriously, how crazy is that? That my adopted sister, who didn’t even live in the same city as me, just happened to end up attending my seventh birthday party a year before we adopted her.

It makes an argument for predetermination or kismet or fate or SOMETHING.

Incidentally, I also was best friends with one of my other future sisters about two years before we adopted her and one of my foster sisters turned out to be distantly (and I do mean distantly) related to us.

It just goes to show that we’re all a lot more connected than we like to think. At least, that’s what I like to think.

The Problem With Heroes

2009-02-11T09:48:00.000-08:00

Attention: Spoilers for “A Clear and Present Danger” and “Truth and Blood” (the last two episodes of this, the third season).

Okay, first of all, just typing the word spoilers almost has me laughing at myself. It’s like, is that even possible? Is it possible to spoil sour milk?

And the reader gets a hint of how I’m feeling about the latest Heroes installments.

It’s not all bad. Actually, it’s an interesting path they’re taking. It would have been a lot more interesting if they’d done it, say, a year ago. You know, before Obama came into office and went about disbanding Gitmo.

But, a decided lack of timeliness is not “the problem with Heroes”, in this bloggers opinion. It’s a decided lack of characterization.

I was underwhelmed at the return of Heroes but was pleasantly surprised by the volume four opener: A Clear and Present Danger. Suddenly these wacking over the top characters had been made human.

Peter was a paramedic. Mohinder was driving a cab. Matt was amusingly trying to get Daphne to go straight. Hiro had created a superhero headquarters and established himself as Ando’s sidekick…okay, that’s human for Hiro.

It was nice. Peter’s paramedic partner was on screen for all of five minutes and I actually got the feeling he was a living breathing human being.
Then Truth and Blood happened. Suddenly, we’re thrown back into a world where people can die and no one seem to notice or care…and that includes the audience.

I have a problem with the current TV trend that is, have a HUGE cast so the individual screen time of most characters suffers as a result and then kill off characters randomly. Oh! And when you kill them off, don’t let that actually draw the remaining characters closer and focus more attention on them. Oh, no. What fun would that be? Instead, add new shiney characters to the show that will annoy and alienate the audience because they take time away from the characters they already know and like.

Lost Our Heroes trend. That’s the official un-official name for that trend.

Heroes is even worse than Lost about this, though. Daphne dies and…nothing. A huge helping of nothing with nothing on the side and nothing pie for desert. I LIKED Daphne. I thought she was cute and fun and just loved Matt’s interactions with her. Suddenly, pop pop and she’s down and nobody seems to freaking CARE!

Nathan actually narrated over her death people!

This is the writers of Heroes not seeming to understand the fundamental truth that is characters are not plot devices. They announced proudly that the actors/characters would serve the story and “no one was safe”. Gasp! You rascals, you! You’re so out there and unpredictable.

They just don’t get that characters are what drive a story. You can have the coolest, most relevant, most exciting plot in town but if people don’t care about the characters that inhabit that plot, NO ONE WILL WATCH IT!

The development of the characters in Heroes is ranking number 81 on the writers list of things to do.

And THAT is the problem with Heroes.

The 15 Minute Break...of DEATH!

2009-01-27T11:30:00.000-08:00

Okay, so, almost every company in this country has decided that the perfect amount of time for an employee break is 15 minutes. Thus, America has basically been posed the question: What can you do in 15 minutes?

Apparently, the answer we’ve come up with is: Eat a snack or smoke a cigarette.

That’s what we do and both are killing us.

(Ooooh, Annie, you’re sounding serious.)

Well, this is serious business, people! We’re dying from cancer sticks and diabetes doughnuts.

PUT THEM DOWN!!!

Walk around the parking lot. If your dignity or lack thereof permits, skip around the parking lot. Encourage your employer to get a Wii. Think how much fun break time would be if we were spending it playing and/or watching our coworkers play Wii party games? We’d be doing something other than just doing ourselves in.

If your employer has some aversion to doing this, try bringing a jump rope to work or just a piece of chalk. There’s nothing, absolutely nothing wrong with a grown person playing hopscotch.

If playing in the parking lot makes me a freak and stuffing my face or choking my lungs makes me normal, sign me up for the freak show. I’ll live longer.

Abraham Lincoln Was A Racist

2009-01-25T08:07:00.000-08:00

Some of you may read that title and be thinking, “Right On!” and some of you may be thinking, “How dare she?” (Assuming someone other than papermasks ever reads this blog, of course.) However, I’ll probably surprise both sides by the time I’m done.

Now, I love Abraham Lincoln. I think he was a great man who did great things. Even the fact that he suffered from depression makes me love him because he managed to trudge on in spite of it.

My favorite Abe story is about a young Abe and Ann Rutledge. He reportedly loved her deeply even though she was engaged to another man and went into a depression after she died of typhoid. The story goes that the night of the first rainfall after her burial Abe rushed away, startling his friends.

When he didn’t return they went looking for him and found him holding an umbrella over her grave. They approached him, asking for an explanation and he reportedly wept, “I cannot bear that it should rain upon her.”

That story may be an exagerration or just flat untrue. I mean, certainly today that language sounds unbelievable, but that’s the way they talked back then. Proper grammar. Beautiful prose being completely commonplace…

Disease! Death! Prejudicial Ignorance! Enslavement! Insufficient Sanitation!

Okay, sorry about that. I had to remind myself why I really am glad I didn’t live in the nineteenth century.

What was I talking about? Oh yeah, Lincoln.

The fact is that Lincoln, like most abolitionists, was a product of the culture of the time: A culture that viewed slaves of African decent as little more than animals. I'm thinking that people of the time kind of viewed them in a similar way to the way we view animal rights activists.

Note: I am not in any way, shape or form saying that people with more melanin are animals or animal like. Well, any more than any of us is. I am saying that back in the nineteenth century the general consensus was that they were just a notch or two above animals and, for the record, the general consensus was wrong (as it often is).

Now, there were the “moderate” abolitionists like Lincoln who recognized the vicious cruelty being perpetrated by slave traders and owners but “understood” that darker persons were inferior. They actually believed that slavery was so wrong, there was no need to liberate slaves. If you prevented new states from legalizing it and enforced it's ban in other states, the system of slavery would collapse.

This is oddly similar to the tack we took on Communism. We never outright fought to destroy the U.S.S.R. We just did everything we could to keep communism from spreading and waited for it to collapse.

Huh...I'm not really making a point there. It just strikes me as odd. Anyway...

There were radicals, like John Brown, who were the PETA of their day. Insisting, not only that the cruelty stop immediately, but that slaves be given all the rights of other men.

When you look at Lincoln’s life, you can see his opinion changing. The reason? I think it was information. I think Lincoln was ignorant. His heart was in the right place but his understanding of the abilities and nature of visibly darker persons was based mostly on second hand information. If he actually had the opportunity to meet a freed slave, that person had been deprived of even the most basic education.

Remember me talking about how much the culture of the time valued grammar? Think of the worst Grammar Nazi you’ve ever met and populate the world with them. These people prized oration and elucidation so highly, and there you have the slaves: deprived of anything remotely resembling an education and that wasn't accidental.

Then Lincoln met Fredrick Douglas. Fredrick Douglas was a GREAT man. (And, seriously, someone needs to make biopic of his life while Morgan Freeman is still able to play the lead role. I'm just saying...)

When he was a boy he was given as a “house boy slave” to a young couple upon their marriage. The young woman had never been around slaves and, thus, treated young Frederick as she would any other child. She gave him chores around the house and set aside time each day for education.

When her husband, a man well schooled in the slave culture, learned of the lessons he stopped them immediately. His reaction was so violent, the extremely intelligent Frederick Douglas, recognized that something about an educated slave was threatening. So, he carried on teaching himself and educating himself.

Frederick Douglas was eloquent. He was so well read and well spoken that even many abolitionists couldn’t bring themselves to believe that he was the real deal. They speculated that he was simply parroting the words of others. That's how deep the belief that darker pigmentation meant a person was, well, somehow less than a person.

Now, Lincoln and Douglas didn't always agree. Douglas critisized the fact that Lincoln initially merely opposed the expansion of slavery and not emancipation. However, Lincoln's interaction with men like Douglas, men of darker pigmentation that disproved what he had been taught, were the key to his growth as a man. When Lincoln met Douglas, he didn't stupidly and rigidly cling to the belief that all darker people were inherintly stupid like so many others did.

Even the people working to free slaves were colored by the propoganda of the time and limited interaction with former slaves who had been deprived of education and traumatized by their experiences. They made the mistake of confusing ignorance with unintelligence.

That ignorance was steadfastly maintained for just that purpose and given this zealously maintained ignorance among dark folks, it’s not surprising that an equally distressing level of ignorance was maintained among light folks.

What’s my point?

Yes, Abraham Lincoln had an ignorant understanding of skin pigmentation. He was a racist, but not in the way we think of racism today, and probably not for all of his life.

Today, the proof of the equality of man is all around us. People of darker pigmentation speak the same language, have been permitted to achieve high levels of education, they have been allowed to make incredible and significant contributions to our society and culture. Well, some of them have been allowed (that's going to need to be another post).

If you are a racist today, it is because you are stupidly, willfully ignorant.

The fact that Lincoln, over the course of his life, continued to refine his opinion of slaves and those of darker pigmentation is remarkable. It is conceivable that, had he been allowed to live, he would have come to a modern day understanding of race. That is amazing considering the culture in which he was immersed.

And that's why we have to actually look to Lincoln as an example. Because even though his point of view was skewed and bent, he was thinking for himself instead of following the crowd, and that is what makes him remarkable.

So, yeah, Lincoln was a racist and that’s the truth. But the truth also is that he was a kind, loving, deeply compassionate man who thought for himself. I don’t think it’s fair to despise him for his ignorance any more than it would be fair to despise the slaves for theirs.

I don't think it's fair to stand within a culture of awareness and tolerance that was, in part, created by Lincoln and his example and despise him.

I also think (becasue that's all this is, theories and thoughts) that we have to be careful. If Lincoln and so many others were led astray by the culture of the day, we stand in similar peril. The lesson I take from Lincoln is to try to never just follow the crowd; to never accept that something is right or wrong without examining the evidence and searching my own soul.

I'll end with what Fredrick Douglass had to say in a candid tribute to Lincoln at the unveiling of the Emancipation Memorial. A tribute in which he did not fail to point out Lincoln's faults:

"Can any colored man, or any white man friendly to the freedom of all men, ever forget the night which followed the first day of January 1863, when the world was to see if Abraham Lincoln would prove to be as good as his word?"

I Am NOT Saying Obama Is Hitler: I Pledge

2009-01-24T05:42:00.000-08:00

I happened to be playing around on YouTube and saw this commercial put together by a bunch of celebrities.

It was disturbing.

Okay, not completely. Here's the link: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=51kAw4OTlA0

First, I gotta say that the abject hero worship of Obama is, well, disturbing. He's just a politician. He's a good politician but a politician nonetheless.

He is not the end all be all. He will not wave a magic wand and cure the world's ills. He will not give all children who lose a tooth a pony.

This doesn't mean I think he insincere about wanting to change things for the better. I actually respect him and have been impressed by his first acts as President.

I'm just weirded out by the unabashed hero worship. I'm a fan of history. People got this worked up about characters like Stalin and Hitler.

Clarification: I am not saying Obama is anything like Stalin or Hitler.

However, when people start drooling like idiots around a politician, I get the heeby geebies. Why? Because, it edges into blind devotion. Blind devotion to a leader doesn't typically end well.

However, I'm still loving the message of the video, even though the beginning and ending kind of creep me out.

Yeah, I know. I never claimed to make sense.

Anyway, if you followed the link you saw a bunch of celebreties pledging to do simple things that will make the world better. Things like getting to know their neighbors, recycling, not using plastic bags at the store.

The thing is, most people don't do these things because they know that individually, it doesn't do much good.

For example, I Pledge to continue riding my bike and the bus to and from work during the week and I Pledge to work from home as much as is allowed by my company.

I've been doing this for about four months and it hasn't been easy. The riding itself was hard because, when I started, I was "flabby, fat and lazy". But just a few weeks of pedaling got rid of the sore muscles, if not all the fat...grumble, grumble.

Then there's the fact that my husband can't drop off the monkey (my son) at daycare AND pick him up. The daycare doesn't open until 6:30 and my bus arrives at between 6:50 and 6:55 and is a fair distance from my house. It's also unreliable. Since I can't be sure to pick the monkey up, I drop him off in the morning. My hubby leaves early and drives back home in time to retrieve the monkay and all is well.

So, I drop off the monkey in the car, drive back home, get on my bike and pedal like the Furries are after me. (That's not a typo.) Translation: my morning isn't a leisurely ride. It's pedal to the...um...it's just a lot of pedalling. If anything, and I mean anything goes wrong in my morning routine I will miss my bus and have to wait a half an hour for the next one which makes me late, late, late.

But none of those things have been my biggest problem. The biggest problem has been the nay sayers.

The people shaking their heads and looking at me like I'm insane are annoying. The fact that my office doesn't have a bike wrack, won't let me lock my bike by the front or back entrance and make me park on the loading dock by the dumpster is really annoying.

But it's the people who talk to me about how it doesn't make a difference that are truly discouraging.

Why? Because they're right. Me doing it all by myself doesn't really make that much of a difference.

However, I think that if I keep doing it, I might, just maybe encourage someone else to do it or something similar. If more people ride the bus, there might be more buses and bus routes. If there are more buses and bus routes, the public transporation system is more convenient. If it's more convenient, even more people might use it. If more people use public transportation...

Well, it would make a HUGE difference.

I think that's the problem with most small steps. Individually, we often don't see the point.

The thing I love about that I Pledge video is that it shows us other people doing the little things. If we see enough people pledging and doing the little things, maybe we'll all do those little things and they can grow up and be the big things we always hoped they'd be.

Lady Blue Hands and the Doorknob of Doom!

2009-01-23T20:38:00.000-08:00

--I'm standing there staring at the door and wondering how I can get out without actually touching anything.--

This morning I got a lovely surprise. An "invitation" from my employer to participate in a random drug test. Like I said, lovely.

I arrive and, after a bit of paperwork, am handed the cup.

I find myself worrying if I have enough in the tank to fill it to the indicated line, proving I'm not on drugs. If I were on drugs, I'd be worried about what was in my piss and not the amount of piss in my bladder.

I tinkle in the cup and, unfortunately, on my hand.

EW!

Okay, EW! EW! EW!

My two year old has a potty that collects his urine for disposal in the toilet but I have to dangle a small cup manually?

I immediately put the cup down and start wiping my hands with toilet paper. There are about five signs in the small bathroom advising me to NOT FLUSH and they employ the ultimate threat, I'd have to pee in a cup again.

So, I've got the ickily warm cup in my hand and I'm looking at the doorknob. I'm thinking about the traces of urine on my hands and how many people must come and go in this drug testing facility and, of course, of all the traces of urine on all their hands and all their hands grasping that doorknob.

I'm TRAPPED! I'm trapped in a tiny room that is probably so completely covered in urine trace, shining a black light would cause it to glow so brightly we could signal ALIENS.

I finally put the cup down again and pull out more toilet paper. I wrap up my hand, pick up the cup, grasp the doorknob and get out. A woman in blue gloves takes the cup from me and I practically run to the sink to wash my hands. Except I still have toilet paper wrapped around one of them.

I look for a trash bin. I don't find a trash bin. I ask about a trash bin and the woman in blue gloves looks at me like I'm crazy as I explain about the toilet paper.

Of course, she feels fine grabbing up urine covered doorknobs, she's wearing gloves.

She rolls her eyes at me, grabs the toilet paper off of my hand and, opening a cabinet, trashes it.

With relief, I turn to the sink. I turn on the hot water and only the hot water. I get cold water.

What?You make me pee in a cup and you don't even provide hot water with which to wash my hands afterward?

I compensate with lots of anti bacterial soap and sigh a huge sigh of relief. I feel clean again.

Meanwhile, Lady Blue Hands has been filling out paperwork. She tells me to sign about five different places and, gulp, holds out the pen.

The pen she's holding in her blue gloves.

The blue gloves with which she grabbed my urine covered toilet paper.

I'm wondering exactly what to do here. I mean, she rolled her eyes when I explained about the doorknob, what's she going to do if I carry cross contamination a step further?

While I've been pondering this, she's been holding the pen. Now, she's shaking it at me and saying, "Ma'am?" All I can think is, EW!

I finally take the proferred pen petulantly and sign, date, sign, date...done! I practically throw the pen onto the counter and rush back to the sink.

Lady Blue Hands is really looking at my sample now. I think she thinks it shows potential for a hit. I don't care.I'm done!

Done! Done! Done!

There aught to be laws against random drug testing. I mean, you shouldn't be able to put someone through that without them at least acting suspicious, right?